


Plastic Flowers

by comeincomeout



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Family Drama, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Gen, Graduation Anxieties, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Light Angst, M/M, Marauders, Marauders' Era, Multi, Pre-War, Quidditch Rivalries, Slow Burn, multiple POVs, pining Sirius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeincomeout/pseuds/comeincomeout
Summary: Kicked out of his home, Remus refusing to speak to him, and his post-graduation future looking less ideal by the minute, Sirius struggles to keep ignoring that there’s something darker waiting for them all on the other side of Hogwarts’s great, iron doors. And Regulus? He never even tried to pretend. It’s not easy, by any means, to be a Black.[Renamed from “Is It Raining Where You Are?”]





	1. Chapter 1

**September 1, 1977.**

Sirius closes the last latch on his trunk. Crouching beside it in the middle of James’s bedroom, he pauses. He’ll never get used to the way morning sun filters through floor-length windows in the countryside.

It stretches in wide shapes across the duvet draped over his bed, diffusing shadow entirely from the far wall, coating the room in a uniform warm glow. Back in his family's home, a narrow and claustrophobic rectangle jammed between two or twenty identical flats on a narrow two-lane city street, the sun was nonexistent even before the dark curtains that obscured every window. In Sirius’ room, where he tore the curtains down every time Kreacher would shove them back up again, it was still somehow always dark. The Potter's is just the opposite.

James and his family live in a large house on the outskirts of North London, surrounded by lush green hills and, courtesy of Euphemia Potter, extensive acres of garden. Looking out the massive window from this second floor bedroom, Sirius can usually admire all the different colours of flowers and bushes two stories below, squinting against the sunlight. He stands up and walks there now, dragging his trunk behind him and leaning it against the window. It always feels very warm in this room. He's tired, hungover, and unwilling to leave.

James is outside on his broom, hovering a few feet above the garden, talking animatedly to his parents standing on the cobblestone pathway. In the horizon beyond them, there's nothing but green — rolling hills, sparse trees, the next closest house a mere spot in the distance. Sirius stands a moment longer.

Finally, he charms his suitcase, his belongings shifting inside as it rises off the floor and follows him downstairs. The old, grand wooden stairs creak underneath his steps. The walls in the foyer are all window, every last inch of the room covered in the same yellow light. No, it's really nothing like his family's home — he knows this particularly because he's never wanted to stay home on September 1st before, and yet, standing here, he'd stay forever if he could. No worries, no obligations, no darkness and no cold.

He glances at the open kitchen to his right before he steps out the door, committing each towering wooden pantry and scuffed countertop to memory like he might not see it again. It's not as warm as it looks outside, but there's no wind, so the sunlight sits serenely on his skin. He's been living here exactly three months, but the lightness of the air is another thing he still isn't used to. In this moment, he tries to think about exactly why he doesn't want to go back to school.

1\. He's never really had a proper home before, not really, so it seems counterproductive to—

“ _Watch your head, Pads_!” James shouts, swooping narrowly above him on his broom, the bristles catching stray strands of Sirius’s hair. He loops back around and skids down to a stop in front of Sirius, hopping off and launching the broom to the ground several feet behind him.

“Twat,” Sirius says flatly, picking at his nails. 

He lowers his trunk to the ground beside him, eyeing James's pile of five equally-sized ones stacked back by his parents and their car. James kicks at a stray cobblestone pebble and stretches his arms high in the air. Behind them, his father picks up his broom off the ground and walks over. James leans forward towards Sirius.

“I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever get up.”

“I was up,” Sirius says matter-of-factly.

“Ready?” Fleamont asks when in earshot, handing James back his broom without comment. He glances between the two of them, smiling at Sirius. “Last year. Last time to make it count, yes? Are you ready to make it count?”

“Oh, usually,” James says, grinning back at him.

Sirius shrugs and pats the top of his trunk, a dense thud echoing. “As I'll ever be.”

“Foreboding, aren't we, Mister Sirius?” 

Fleamont pats James on the back and wanders back towards his wife, who's loading James’s things into their very nice, very shiny flying car. James picks up Sirius’s trunk in his free hand for no reason, falling into step with him as they approach the car. Sirius glances back at the house.

“In a better mood than last night?” James asks.

Sirius ponders. He recalls last night, wherein he drank half a bottle of firewhiskey and loudly told James that he'd only make him go back to school if he tied him up and shoved his writhing, screaming body into the luggage car, before promptly throwing up half a bottle of firewhiskey. 

“No,” he says. 

“Noted.” James then, for once, shuts his mouth. He strikes up conversation with his parents instead. Sirius gets in the car alone and pulls the door shut, staring at the large country house he just left, its brick and wood finish stark against the green hills. 

He tries thinking again.

1\. He's never had a proper home before, not really, so leaving it so soon seems very counterproductive. That makes sense.

2\. Well, Hogwarts was his home before, so—

James closes the boot with a sonic boom of a _bang_ , then gets into the backseat next to Sirius. Both their legs are too long for the cramped car, and at least James’ voice is too loud for the space. He's continuing talking to his parents without a care, like this _last year_ is somehow just like every other year. 

Sirius gives up, for the moment, trying to think. He tunes out both himself and everyone else, watching London appear slowly below them, the buildings in the worst type of nonsensical labyrinth. King's Cross comes into view, pale brick towering only slightly over the buildings around it, a familiar sight.

When they've arrived, James, again, gets Sirius's trunk out of the car for him, loading it onto a luggage cart. It's the only lone trunk on the large, silver cart, but Sirius grabs hold of the cart anyway. James's cart, on the contrary, is piled high. They head off into the station, James's parents right behind them. Sirius makes a face as he has to shove his cart through a large turnstile only to erupt onto a crowded walkway. There are mostly Muggles, a few obvious wizards among them, but it really doesn’t make a difference to him; Sirius is fair in the sense that he hates everyone rather equally. 

“The only thing worse than a train station full of people is a train station full of people when I'm hungover.”

“That's so sad,” James says solemnly, shaking his head as they round a corner. Sirius has to swerve to dodge a large Muggle family all wearing shirts with American flags on them.

“Merlin, I can't wait to go to bed.”

“Just think about Peter's face when I show him we got those crystals in Romania.”

“I'm glad you're having a good time today,” Sirius mutters. James ignores him.

“Think I'll give Peter the Firestone, he'll like that, and of course Remus gets the Moonstone — wait, is that in bad taste? Okay, I'll have the ride to think about it. I think he'd find it well funny, but…”

“Is Remus—” Sirius starts, then catches James looking at him like _that_ , and scoffs. “Never mind.”

“Oh, he's not going to be on the train,” James says, trailing off each word. Sirius is making a particular effort not to look at him as they push their carts through the crowds of Muggles in workwear and holiday wear alike, but James is somehow still managing to keep his eyes fixedly on Sirius without hitting anything. Sirius hates that look, the one that's somewhere between pity and affection. James goes on, “A Certain Thing is tonight, so Dumbledore's arranged to have him come by tomorrow morning. Did Remus—”

“He hasn't responded to a single one, no. Thank you for asking for the fourth time this week.” 

They round a second corner, the brick pillar of platform 9¾ looming ahead, and come to a stop. A couple of younger students are anxiously preparing to plow through to the platform. From behind, Euphemia Potter puts her hand on Sirius’ shoulder. He's not sure whether she was listening in or not.

“His owl probably got confused by the change of address,” James offers. Sirius looks sternly at him before exhaling out the side of his mouth.

“Of course.”  
   
“Boys,” Fleamont says, rustling around in the large pockets of his bright trousers, “Together, together. Humour us.” He pulls out a large camera, fumbling to attach the flash to it. Euphemia gives Sirius’s shoulder a sound squeeze and joins her husband behind the camera. Her robes, bright yellow, match Fleamont's tie, and the two of them have identically unruly dark hair; it, of course, matches James’ as well. Sirius always thinks the Potters look like they belong in a large portrait hung up in the front of a shop somewhere.

“Dad,” James leers, but he throws his arm around Sirius anyway, flashes all his teeth in a big smile, and waves. Sirius sticks his tongue out as Fleamont snaps a photo of the two of them.

“Last year. _Last_ year!” he exclaims, loud enough to get the attention of some passersby. He takes three steps forward and pulls James into a tight hug.

Sirius is going to start laughing at them, as if familial affection is some kind of comedic gold, but he finds himself not a moment later pulled into the whole ordeal as well. His cheek smushes against the pocket-watch in Fleamont Potter's breast, the world momentarily obscured from vision, and he's never really had an adult hug him before. He sort of just stands there until he's released.

“Dear Father, don't cry your eyes out,” James teases, pulling the handkerchief out from his father's other breast pocket and waving it around wildly in front of his face. 

Sirius takes half a step backwards, like he'd been intruding, and finds Euphemia standing next to him — she smiles, then reaches over and touches his hair. Sirius stays planted in place, somewhere between warm and cold, unsure how to respond. A train whistle from another platform sounds off. 

“Don't worry, Sirius,” she tells him. 

He blinks twice and doesn't have time to tell her he doesn't worry about anything, of _course_ not, before James is hitting him on the arm and telling him to hurry up and grab his trolley, it's their turn to go through. Euphemia runs her hand through his hair before she steps back, and all Sirius can do is try to shove the entire summer into one grateful nod.

“So on and so long, Mister and Missus P,” he quips, gracing them with a comically low curtsy before he links arms with James and, hands firmly on his under-packed trolley, breaks out in a run towards the platform.

*******

“Mr. Black, abandoning all pretense: you're okay, mate?” James asks. He adjusts his large glasses, his dark skin looking especially flushed. He doesn't usually ask things like that, but he's been somewhat doting on Sirius today. Sirius claps him on the side of the head.

“Two big words in one sentence, Potter, wow,” he says, walking ahead. James jogs to catch up with him.

“You can't say I didn't ask,” he jabs, taking long steps through the already-running train and following Sirius down the walkway. Most compartments in the cars they've been through are full already and several students are still wandering, looking for friends or merely a place to sit, the din of conversation escalating in the small space.

“Wh—at?” Sirius calls back loudly, sticking one arm in the air to wave ahead James as they sidle through people to get to the next car. They've been through a few already. 

“Uh huh—“ James starts, a retort surely in the back of his throat until he's appropriately distracted and shoves in front of Sirius, crash landing right in the open doorway of the nearest compartment, “Oh _gee_ , check it out, Sirius. It’s really him.” 

James steadies his index finger in a sharp point towards the inside of the compartment, singling out a short figure with his knees up and both feet on the seat, oversized sunglasses tucked up over his forehead. Sirius raises one eyebrow in mock curiosity.

“Oh, no, it can’t be,” he plays along, “That’s the famous—” Sirius then swivels around, one hand on the edge of the compartment door, spinning himself into the doorway and pointing with his free hand all in one motion. James gets knocked forward inside, stumbling but sticking his landing.

“It is! It’s—”

“Peter Pettigrew!” they both all but shout in perfect unison, Sirius continuing to pivot back and forth in and out of the doorway like a pendulum, hanging off the doorframe, intermittently blocking students trying to traverse through to the rest of the train. The whistle blows and the walking and talking is still loud, but not as loud as the chug of the engine fully ready.

Peter looks up at them, makes a clicking noise with his tongue, and swipes his sunglasses down over his eyes. James gives him a little clap.

“Ladykiller, you,” he says. Peter finally smirks. 

“Oh, well, look here—” Sirius starts, mid-pivot, his body at a 45-degree angle from the doorframe now and hanging obnoxiously out into the walkway. James head pops out next to him, eager to see. Sirius points.

James says, “Mr. Snape!”

The Slytherin boy, far less than amused, makes brief eye contact with the pair of them before he elbows past Sirius. Sirius, on principle, elbows right back, knocking Severus’s shoulder against the wall. He keeps on going, much to Sirius’s disappointment as he’s sort of still in the mood to punch someone — and this specific someone does rather nicely, especially considering the nightmare of the last time he saw him — in the face.

“Bye,” James calls out, vaguely cheerful. This earns him a middle finger and the flick of a wand from the receding Snape, but Sirius lets go of the doorframe and counters just in time, sparks shooting out from his wand and singing just the edge of Severus’s sleeve as he slips through the door to the next car. 

“This is our idea of maturity, is it?” Lily Evans says from the opposite direction. Sirius turns around, too self-righteous to be embarrassed, and shrugs. 

James, on the contrary, is suddenly standing up straight and trying to look like he’s been doing something else this whole time. Sirius looks at him, but it goes mostly unnoticed.

“Oh, I’m very mature today,” James says, “I’m only still working on this guy, aren’t I?”

He hikes a finger towards Sirius, pulling a face. Sirius finally enters the compartment and collapses into the seat next to Peter, grabbing the sunglasses off his friend’s head and putting them over his own eyes. 

“I bet,” Lily says, waving her hand in dismissal. Her hair’s shorter than it was last year, wavy and brushed effortlessly just over the tops of her shoulders, and James has definitely noticed. Sirius rolls his eyes behind the glasses.

“No, really,” James says. His eyes shift sideways towards Sirius in something like staged disapproval, annoying Sirius for the second time since they got here. He lets it go. 

He instead leans his head against the window, looking out at the platform. The sunlight reflects off the numerous trolleys and metal sidings of trunks, students of all sizes walking and running about, kissing their parents goodbye. He closes his eyes. This day — this moment — usually feels infinitely better, but today’s really having its way with him.

“Sit with us,” he hears James saying as he falls into the seat across from Sirius.

“It’s four to a car and naturally you’re saving a spot for Remus, so,” Lily says from her spot in the doorway. Sirius opens his eyes as lazily as he’d closed them, watching her stand there with her hand on the frame. He tries very hard not to think about Remus.

“Oh, he’s not riding the train in tonight,” James tells her, pulling one leg up and resting his head on his knee, “He’ll be around tomorrow. If you sit with us, maybe I’ll tell you the great mystery of why.”

“Surely there are greater mysteries,” she says, smiling at all three of them. She pulls the door shut and continues walking. The shut door immediately muffles all the noise from outside, sans the train whistle reverberating throughout the station.

“Nice,” Peter says. James raises his wand at him in halfhearted threat, holding steady for a moment before he whistles out the side of his mouth and drops it into his lap. The train whistle blows once more, the crowd on the platform thinning as Sirius watches. He feels Peter watching _him_ then, the heat of the gaze enough to turn his head and reflect his friend’s reflection back in the mirrored sunglass lenses.

“What,” he says. Peter smiles at him.

“Say hello?” he says, much to James’ amusement, “You might’ve written.”

Sirius makes some type of noise to signal his mood.

“Aw, what's his problem,” Peter says to James as if they’re alone, but he smiles again at Sirius anyway. Sirius normally doesn't mind him being so genuine, but he shoots an aggressively sarcastic smile back today to stave him off.

“He’s—” James starts, but Sirius kicks him in the foot before he can get much else out, “Having a very fine day, yes, he is.”

“Always,” Sirius adds, watching the last of the first-years scramble onto the train. He doesn't see Peter and James exchange glances, but he assumes they do before they move on and start talking about what they did this summer. James pulls out the Romanian crystals to show off, naturally. Sirius thinks hard about the Potter's garden, the sunlight in the bedroom, the endless and convenient supply of firewhiskey. He tries to figure out exactly why he didn't want to come back to school this year.

1\. He's never had a proper home before, not really, so leaving it so soon seems very counterproductive. That one makes sense.

Most of the car hallways are clear now, students settled into their compartments, and the train whistle blows a third time. Someone runs up their hallway, banging on the doors of every compartment they pass, shouting unintelligibly. James yells something about being _head boy_ , Peter's giggling undermining him.

2\. Well, Hogwarts was his home in any and all sense of the word before this year, so that first one isn't quite true. But it's his seventh and final year, so it won't be able to _be_ his home after that, and that's sort of—well, he won't think about it, but it sure is “sort of” something.

“I learned how to fly very well on my broom this term break, I did, so I think I should be star chaser now,” Peter says. James goes “mmmmhm?” very thoughtfully, grinning.

“As if,” Sirius says, being quite rude again. Peter looks at him, then looks back at James.

“I'm joking,” Peter mumbles. James hits Sirius on the shoulder. The train lurches and hisses, pulling out of the platform, the remaining parents waving frantically. 

3\. Sirius just doesn’t want to think about anything, is sort of the point. Being here makes him think about the end of last year, which makes him think about how senselessly terrible it felt to not have Remus so much as give him the time of the day most of the spring term, which, of course, makes him think about Remus. He's trying very hard not to think about Remus.

Sirius used to always watch the houses of city London pass by and be glad he wouldn't have to see them for another year, but he feels strange this time. He hasn't seen them since the beginning of the summer when he shoved what he could manage in a single trunk before apparating to the outside of James’ door at three in the morning, and it's not like he misses those houses or anyone in them, absolutely not, but… “glad” just isn't what he's feeling.

“So—rry,” he says, pulling Peter's sunglasses off his head and extending them back as a truce. Peter chuffs and calls him dramatic, leaning back in his seat and tuning into James as he begins some sort of story. Sirius sees him shove the James-named Moonstone, a clear shimmery white gem, back into his pocket.

4\. Remus. Sirius doesn't want to go back to school because Remus didn't return a single one of his letters all summer, and he's deeply and personally offended by it.

*******

The first couple hours of the train ride are uneventful. The noise from excited first-years watching England whisk by settles down fairly soon, and the trolley cart comes through early enough for James to buy Peter half the damn thing and Peter to eat half of that in record time, rendering him quite afflicted, holding his stomach and groaning softly.

James has his portable wizard's chess board out at this point, as he meant to play with Peter, but has now resigned to playing himself with helpful input from the pieces on the opposite side of the board. Sirius gave up thinking a while ago and has since been fading in and out of sleep, nursing his headache with some chocolate from Peter's pile. Every noise he hears from the halls, he somehow expects Remus to pop into the room.

After another few minutes of the train's steady chug and James arguing with his chess board, Sirius stands up.

“Be back,” he says, exiting before anyone can object. The hallway, with its deep red carpet and narrow sides, is empty for the moment. Sirius starts walking, shuffling through cars in succession, doing whatever he can to avoid sitting still.

He reviews the major events of last term in extensive detail. Sirius halfheartedly told Snivelus to do something dangerous and stupid, Snivelus was stupid enough to do it, and Remus got upset with Sirius for it. Sirius fails to see how that's his fault, except that of course it is, but Remus was and is being obtuse about the whole thing because it's not like Sirius wasn't apologizing profusely in letters all summer long. He sighs out loud.

He makes it through about two cars before he ends up having to uncomfortably squish past the trolley coming through for its second go, getting a nasty look from the trolley woman and a curious look from a compartment full of first-year Hufflepuffs. He winks at them and stumbles onward, into the next car. 

He passes by the open door to Snape's compartment, where he's sat crouched up alone on one side, a notebook in his lap, with Evan Rosier across from him, well-built and in a dark sweater. They both look up as Sirius walks by, and Snape immediately averts his eyes back.

“What, scared?” Sirius sneers. Rosier leans forward and pulls the door shut, the lock clicking.

Sirius isn't really sure where he's going. He stands there for a short moment and then carries on, having lost track of what car he's on by now. He just needs to keep going onwards. He's not even sure if he's heading towards the back or the front of the train, but either has its benefits. Maybe they'll let him into the engine car and he can spend the rest of the ride there, deafened by the whistle and chugging. Alternatively, maybe he can just jump off the back of the train and call it a day.

Lost in thought, he only realizes he's already at the end of the train when he tries to open the next door and finds it locked. He looks out and sure enough the only thing ahead of him is train tracks, moving by at miraculous speed. He looks further, around them, seeing only the now-familiar green of the countryside. He tries an alohamora charm with no success, so he wrinkles his nose and goes to turn around back the way he came.

“Sirius.”

Sirius remains still, his foot mid-step. He watches Regulus Black fully ducks out of the compartment in front of Sirius. He's shorter and smaller than Sirius but usually carries himself like he's ten times as tall — today, though, he looks as small as he is. At least for a moment. He straightens up quickly.

Sirius doesn't want to talk to him. He's been holding onto the warmth from the Potters all morning, clinging to it desperately, but seeing his brother expels it out all in one breath, leaving him nigh shivering. Sirius _doesn't_ want to talk to him, so he doesn't.

“Sirius,” Regulus says again, clearly not getting the message. He takes a step closer. Sirius stands his ground, lowering his own foot.

“What,” he finally replies. Regulus pauses.

“I just wanted to ask how you were doing,” he says. He's already in his uniform sans robes, his hands at his sides and his face unwrinkled, a neutral look except for his eyes. They’re scanning Sirius's face, guarded but active.

“Oh, really.”

“Yes,” Regulus says. He continues to looks at Sirius. Sirius glances sideways, where the rest of Regulus’ compartment — some Slytherins he may or may not recognize, he doesn't really pay them much mind — are trying not to be obvious about observing the interaction.

“No,” Sirius says, and then again more pointedly: “No, fuck you.”

“Oh, okay,” Regulus replies, missing only one beat. He adjusts the collar of his shirt, the green of his house tie obnoxious and reflective as it shifts around, and moves a lock of dark hair from his eyes. It's longer than it was at the beginning of the summer, but has nothing on Sirius. “Whatever.”

“Whatever,” Sirius repeats. He bends forward slightly to match their eye levels. “I didn't think you'd come back to school. Aren't you supposed to be giving ‘the Dark Lord’ a lap-dance, or whatever it is your sort do.”

Someone opens the car door behind him, but Sirius glances back and sees it's only a first- or second-year making her way back to her compartment. He doesn't know why he expected it, again, to be Remus, as if it's his duty to show up any time Sirius is left angry and unsupervised. He turns back to Regulus.

“Clearly you're in some kind of mood,” Regulus tuts. He almost looks like he feels bad for him, as if he has any right to that, so Sirius takes out his wand and holds it close to his chest, pointed clearly at his brother. Two of the Slytherins in the cart with him sit up a little straighter.

“Move. I'm walking.”

“Sirius—“ Regulus tries again, his brow then furrowing much the same way Sirius’s does. Sirius steadies his wand and says nothing.

“Fine. You're insufferable.” Regulus finishes adjusting his collar, dropping his hands. He steps ostentatiously to the side, drawing out the movement, and Sirius hits his shoulder as he shoves past him.

He inhales and holds his breath until he's through the door into the next car. His walk back to his compartment is brisk and brief, and James regards him a little curiously as he stomps back in, but ultimately says nothing about it.

Sirius sits back down. He stirs in his seat. He thinks again, very quickly this time, on why exactly he didn't want to go back to school this year.

1\. He's never had a proper home before, so leaving it so soon seemed counterproductive.  
2\. Hogwarts was his home before this year, but it's his seventh and final year, so—  
3\. He just doesn't want to think about anything. Being here makes him think about things.  
4\. Remus. Remus. Remus. 

“Hey, play chess with me,” James says, jabbing him in the shoulder with a Knight. Sirius turns and looks at him.

“If I play with you, will you leave me alone for the rest of the damn ride?”

James squints. “Yes.”

“Fine,” Sirius turns in his seat, his back to the window, “I'm in.”

5\. Sirius did not, under any circumstances, feel like accidentally or otherwise running into his brother after their parents vocally and violently disowned him over the summer. And yet, as with most things this year, the universe apparently refuses to cut him a fucking break.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first week of the term is over. Regulus tries to enjoy a quiet breakfast. Sirius can't sit still or get to sleep.

**September 12, 1977. Monday.**

The Sirius that left their narrow, well-furnished home at Grimmauld Place in June was not at all the same Sirius that elbowed past Regulus on the train last week. That much, the young Black thinks as he sips dark coffee out of a large teacup, is certain.

The crowds in the Great Hall have thinned considerably since an hour ago. A week into the term, younger students are still leaving breakfast early to make sure they're able to find their classes; most older students have all, by this point in their schooling, found more unique places to hang out than breakfast. Regulus often stays right here, sat at the exact middle of the Slytherin table, his back to the wall and his coffee warm in his hands. He people watches. That's what he _likes_ to do. Today, coincidentally, he's watching the Gryffindor table — James Potter is discretely picking eggs off of Sirius's plate as they chat.

“Merlin, it's half-eight already!” Barty Crouch Jr. exclaims, coughing very loudly as he struggles to swallow a piece of sausage mid-sentence, “I just looked at the clock. I was too starved before. Huh.”

Regulus often tries to find a section of table where he thinks no one will bother him, but the fifth-year boy came in late and sat directly next to him anyway, hastily saying hello before scarfing down his breakfast in all of ten bites. He pushes the empty plate away from him now.

“Congratulations,” Regulus says.

Barty squints at him, but says nothing. He reaches out into the middle of the table and pours himself a third glass of juice, slurping it up instantly. He sets down the glass with a loud sigh.

“See you later, Black,” he says, finally standing up. Regulus nods and takes another sip of coffee, not really looking at him, and then he's bounding off in the other direction. Regulus is alone again with just his coffee and an uneaten roll for company. 

Across the Hall, Sirius has noticed James’s intrusion and hexed his hand to stick to the table.

Of course, in almost all senses, Sirius might be exactly the same: bold, fiery, off the handle at the slightest indication of anything near concern or, god forbid, pity, and yet— his hair had been very long when Regulus last saw him. Cascading in waves down to the middle of his back, littered on every surface in the house. It's just above his shoulders now, choppy and uneven, as if he'd jinxed it all off in one flick. 

He seems distracted. Tired. Perpetually annoyed, though that’s not entirely breaking news, but there’s something about _this_ Sirius that goes beyond standard moodiness. Regulus frowns. He showed as much on the train, not wanting to give Regulus the damn time of day. As if what happened was his fault. As if he wouldn’t have been there for Sirius if he could’ve, but sometimes— sometimes you just can’t. 

“Seriously,” Potter balks, tugging on his arm to no avail. Sirius looks at him with somewhat affectionately narrowed eyes.

“Seriously.”

“This mood has gone far on too long,” Potter says solemnly, twisting around to get into his robe pockets, “This is now an intervention. Pete, Remus.”

Across the table, Peter Pettigrew sits up a little more, a piece of toast in his mouth. Remus Lupin looks slowly up from the Magical Creatures book he's reading.

“You'll, what, have me committed? But how will you manage without me as your team’s newest Quidditch prodigy,” Sirius cracks. Regulus takes a large sip of his coffee, trying not to be too obvious about eavesdropping; it’s just hard not to when Sirius and his friends are always the loudest group within several hundred feet.

“Oh, you won't get off that easy,” Potter says, turning the pockets of his robe inside out. He scrunches his nose and picks up his bag. “When I get my _wand_ …”

“Quidditch try-outs go well? Are you on the team?” Pettigrew tries, looking earnestly at Sirius. Lupin returns to his book.

“Yes,” Sirius says. He looks off elsewhere. 

Regulus follows his eyes to the High Table, where only Slughorn and Flitwick remain, to the podium, to the great window behind, and then sweeping across the left side of the Great Hall until they, coincidentally or not, meet Regulus's. The two brothers look at each other for a moment before Sirius frowns and turns back to Potter, who's now trying to navigate his bag to find the missing wand.

“That's good! James, maybe you left it,” Pettigrew says, wide-eyed. Sirius is stabbing the same piece of egg with his fork over and over again, now looking past both Potter and Pettigrew like he's trying to get Remus Lupin's attention.

“I have it, shush.” The entirety of Potter's free arm is inside his giant bag for a moment. “A-ha!”

“Don't hurt yourself,” Lupin replies. Regulus almost smirks— he's always liked Lupin a little bit.

“Hey,” Potter says, pulling out his wand from the back and pointing it flippantly towards Lupin, “Show some respect, lowly Prefect subject.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Lupin returns to reading his book without another word, most of his breakfast still untouched on the plate. Potter grins and waves his wand at his left hand, freeing it from the table.

“Kids’ stuff, Sirius,” he chides, stretching his fingers out. Sirius snaps out of his distraction and smirks.

“Yeah? _Incendio_.”

Just the edge of Potter's sleeve catches on fire, a comically wispy trail of smoke drifting up towards the sunny, cloudless ceiling. Pettigrew starts laughing, swallowing the rest of his toast. A couple other students nearby have taken notice.

Potter pauses, staring momentarily at Sirius before cracking a smile.

“ _Glacius!_ ” he counters, icy breath expelling from the tip of his wand, both putting out his sleeve and depositing a thin layer of frost on Sirius's face, freezing the locks of hair in front of his eyes. 

Regulus rolls his eyes, having officially begun to lose interest. 

It's then that he notices movement from the head of the Slytherin table; a group of three familiar faces heading right towards him. He pretends he doesn't see.

“Would you two stop?” Lupin says, finally looking up at Sirius. Sirius seems, in a rare moment, at a loss for words. His wand is raised at Potter as if to counter, but he doesn't do anything. Lupin looks away as quickly as he looked up. Sirius lowers his wand.

“Whatever, I won,” he says, setting his wand on the table. Potter glances between Sirius and Lupin, and—

“Mr. Black,” Evan Rosier says, pulling Regulus once and for all from his free entertainment at the Gryffindor table. 

He arrived seemingly at once, directly across the table from Regulus, his hands neatly at his sides. Rosier is a tall and stocky guy, and he always stands with his feet apart, toes pointed forward. He doesn't look different from when Regulus last saw him at the end of last term—the neatly pressed clothes, combed over hair, and holier-than-thou attitude all check out.

“Rosier,” Regulus says, then scans the two tall, lanky boys next to him, “And friends.”

Simon Avery and Francis Wilkes are unrelated, but they could be brothers from a distance. Slender and always slouching; Avery with the blonde hair in his eyes, Wilkes with shaved sides and a perpetual scowl. 

“What, you don't remember names well?” Wilkes says, his arms crossed in front of him and all his weight on one foot, “Top of your class, aren't you?”

“I missed you boys, too.”

“Prick,” Avery says.

“How was your summer?” Rosier asks, ignoring them. Regulus shrugs.

“Uneventful. A little grim. And yours?”

“Full of promise and opportunity.”

“Ah.” 

“He means he and Mulciber got to spent the whole break,” Wilkes starts in a low voice, glancing at the empty seats around them like someone might hear, “Running first class errands for the Dark Lord.”

Regulus knew something was missing; he'd forgotten Mulciber graduated last year, leaving Rosier with only two sidekicks. It's then that he notices Snape isn't here either. He looks around the hall and spots him on back at the other end of the table, in the direction Rosier came from, not paying any mind to what's going on over here. Regulus returns his focus to the conversation.

“That's fun.” He eyes the untouched breakfast roll on his plate, considering eating it just to have something in his mouth. 

Rosier scoffs. “My family's been very fortunate, is all. And I should think we'll find even more fortune coming our way soon.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “My family is very fortunate too, if that's what we're calling it.”

“And my batshit aunt from the Ministry was coming round our place every other weekend,” Avery says, his hands in his pockets, “Talkin’ about how all them new dementors at Azkaban are gonna protect us, the war's gonna be over soon, everything'll be ‘better’ again. My mam and I moved house just so she'd leave us alone.”

“Maybe she's right,” Regulus notes, shrugging his shoulders, “Minchum's all business.”

“You're no fun.”

“Are you gonna eat that?” Wilkes interjects, eyeing the very same roll on Regulus's plate. Regulus waves his hand and Wilkes leans down across the table, picks the roll up, and starts loudly chewing.

“Politics isn't really about fun, is it?” Regulus says.

“Most things are fun if you try,” Avery mutters, looking bored.

“Politics is about getting things _done_ , which Minchum won't, I promise you that,” Wilkes adds with his mouth full, “The bloke's a figurehead. Someone the whingy public can put on a pedestal, and he's really going for it, too. Buying into all the fear and resistance. You know— but you've got to embrace change. He's a coward.”

“Your Dad feed you that bit, Francis?” Regulus replies. He gets some type of cursed satisfaction from pissing Wilkes and Avery off. Even if they ever happen to say things he agrees with, he never likes the way they say them.

“Wouldn't matter. He's right,” Wilkes finishes, swallowing his last bite of roll, “You're one to talk about taking after your parents. Swore I've I see you in Knockturn Alley holding hands with your mam. You and your _fortunate_ family.”

“I'm not actually very close with my mother at the moment, if you really must know.”

“Black family drama?” Avery jibes, taking his hands out of his pockets, “Go on? Love that.”

Regulus clears his throat and looks between the two of them. He doesn't really want to talk about himself.

“You know… I was content to chalk your strange interest in me last term up to some sort of delayed psychotic break on your part, but this prolonged persistence has me now thinking that you lot might actually be interested in us being friends.”

Avery makes a face and turns his head to the side. Rosier chuckles; a deep, throaty emission. 

When Regulus was in his younger years, he'd always look upon the older boy with reserved admiration for his drive — consistently outstanding marks, high-performing Quidditch Keeper, a circle of prestigious friends, all while having come from a family never quite as relevant as Regulus’s. He was something to strive towards… until Regulus grew into exactly the same type of student himself. A better version, even, and he's sure Rosier must know that. 

The way he watches him every time they've been together, silent and guarded, like he's assessing a threat — yes, he must know that Regulus exceeds him in nearly all capacities. Most people tend to regard Regulus that way, anyway: threatened greatly, as they should be, by his aptitude. _As they should be_. He never feels like it's arrogant to think that. It's just a fact. Somehow even the great Evan Rosier turned out to just be another milestone passed.

“Well,” Rosier says.

And yet respect is something Regulus was taught should take more than passive mediocrity to lose; when it's earned, it's earned; so when, last term, Rosier and his gang asked Regulus wouldn't he like to accompany them to Hogsmeade tonight — and subsequently most nights after, he found — the starstruck first-year schoolboy somewhere deep within him accepted graciously. He just didn’t reckon it’d turn into a long-term investment.

Then again, Regulus was never one for making friends.

“Well,” says Regulus, quirking a brow. 

Rosier smiles at him. “I heard you received ten OWLs, all Outstanding.” 

Regulus ponders a moment, his eyes following a group of first-years that walk behind Rosier's large figure, charmed by their apparent disregard. They don't even really glance at Rosier. Regulus clears his throat. 

“I actually received the highest marks of my year in eight out of those ten.”

“ _Wo—w_ ,” Avery says from the left, waving his hand sarcastically. Regulus sips his coffee. He was never very dazzled by Avery at all, though he did find out last term that he excelled at Exploding Snaps and had a wicked way of holding his liquor for someone that surely couldn't weigh more than 100lbs.

“Impressive,” Rosier finally admits, squaring a warning hand on Avery's shoulder, “You could do a lot with marks like those.”

“I could certainly brag about my accomplishments all morning, if you'd like.”

“You're sitting with us at dinner tonight or not, Black? That's all we came over here for. I mean, Snape is just dying to see you again. You know, he was so excited that he refused to walk over with us. The _nerves_ , I bet,” Avery interrupts once more, one hand back in his pocket and the other pushing Rosier's off his shoulder. He sounds very Northern, as usual. He exchanges a glance with Wilkes and they both start snickering.

“Maybe,” Regulus says, stirring his spoon in his coffee. 

He looks back to the head of the table where Severus Snape is sitting, his face close to a notebook as he writes. The two of them didn't get along at all last year. He's not expecting much different now.

“ _Bombarda!_ ” Sirius shouts from across the room, just when Regulus had nearly forgotten they were over there.

At that, a small explosion erupts from the Gryffindor table.

Lupin stands abruptly, his cheeks flushed from embarrassment or irritation or both, his robes and bag gathered in a messy bunch against his chest. A rather large section of the table in front of him is blackened, plates cracked and glasses spilled, and there's a healthy amount of soot on his shirt.

Potter lowers his own wand, exchanges a glance with Sirius, then turns to address the other students now looking: “And that, friends, was our successful, planned demonstration of a very useful fourth-year Charm. Please direct further questions to Professor Flitwick.” 

He gestures widely to the High Table where Flitwick and Slughorn have now turned to look at the disruption. Much like, Regulus notices, everyone still left in the Great Hall. Even Rosier's attention is held for a moment; Regulus watches him shake his head in disbelief. 

“Sorry, Moony,” Pettigrew mumbles as he pulls the charred remains of his Magical Creatures book off the table and hands it up. Sirius stands, reaching a hand out to grab his friend's arm, but Lupin takes the book and moves out of range just in time. Sirius nearly stumbles.

“Hey, Remus—” he starts, but Lupin turns on his heels and makes a swift exit out of the room, leaving Sirius stood there expectantly. Regulus doesn't want to watch, not really, but he again finds that he can't look away. Sirius slinks back down into his seat after a moment and Pettigrew comforts him with an awkward hand on his back, but his eyes are only on the large doors at the end of the Hall. 

Regulus always wished his brother wouldn't worry about the type of petty things he does, like what color his trunk is or whether Remus Lupin will speak to him this week; all that waste of time and energy is probably why he's so bloody miserable all the time. Yet Regulus finds himself something like envious at times, and he's not sure—

Rosier must notice him watching now.

“Regulus,” he prods, leaning down in front of him just enough to perfectly block his view, “I'll see you later, yes? Please. There's something I'd like to ask you about—an opportunity.”

He smiles without his eyes and, with Wilkes, turns to walk back to the head of the table. He grabs Avery's arm and tugs him along, pulling him from the distraction.

***

**September 15, 1977. Thursday.**

4\. Remus didn't return a single one of my letters all last summer, and I'm deeply and personally offended by it. 4. Remus didn't return a single one of my letters all last summer, and I'm deeply and personally offended by it. 4. Remus didn't return a single—

“Sirius. It's past ten. Get back to the dormitory.”

Sirius raises his arm in the air without looking around and only hears, doesn't see, Lily click her tongue at him. 

“Evans. Always a pleasure.” 

The candles in the lanterns waver in the chilly air of the North Tower stairwell this evening, but they never falter. He’s leaning against the banister looking down the middle of the spiral stairs at the ground two stories below.

He replays the events of the last week to himself, keeping it brief. Arrived at school. Ate dinner. James accidentally tripped Lily Evans while trying to get her attention, which got him shouted at by Marlene McKinnon, which got her shouted at by Peter—dear Peter, he was just trying to be helpful—which got all of them shouted at by McGonagall. Sirius went to the dormitories early and stayed up all night waiting for Remus to come in in the morning. Remus didn't come in in the morning. Remus rather came in halfway through Transfiguration that day, his head down and his things clutched to his chest, apologizing quietly and sitting exactly across the room from Sirius. Sirius decided to try out for Quidditch on a whim.

Remus sat with them at dinner but ignored everything he said. Remus went to bed early. Remus sat with them at breakfast but ignored everything he said. Remus didn't sit next to him in Transfiguration. Remus sat with them at dinner and wouldn't look Sirius in the eyes, even when he said something very funny that made everyone laugh. Remus went on Prefect rounds and got back after Sirius fell asleep. Sirius made the team as a Beater, and James was more excited than him about it.

After that, Sirius sort of lost track— more of the same, more of the same, more of the same. James gave Remus his Romanian crystal and Remus smiled, genuinely and gratefully, and returned to his book. Sirius thought he'd try to have some fun again and it ended with his exploding of the Gryffindor table at breakfast. Remus didn't sit next to him in Transfiguration. Remus went on Prefect rounds. Sirius started wandering aimlessly around the castle, the Marauder's Map tucked discretely in a large book, hoping he'd just bump into him.

Of course he'd bump into fucking Evans instead.

“Sirius,” she says again, careening out over the banister in front of him to get in his field of view, “Don't make me dock points. You alone already lost, what, fifty? In the first week of the term? I'm not even sure if we've _got_ any more to lose.”

“Then carry on and don't tell anybody you saw me. Easy.”

“Oh.” She stands straight again, and he turns his head to meet her eyes. She looks sort of tired. “Come on.”

Somewhere, Sirius knows he should cut her a break, that the first-years this autumn brought with them a unique brand of headache and her and James both have been staying up every night all week, juggling getting them acclimated with figuring out how to schedule the Prefects with just trying to go to class—but he's irritated. 

“Fine,” Sirius says, adjusting the book (and map) in his hand and pushing off the banister, “You're so particularly irritating, do you know that?”

He starts descending down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Someone has to do the hard stuff!” she calls after him. He raises two fingers in a charming parting gesture.

He was only about halfway up the staircase, so he gets to the bottom of the tower rather quickly and walks out into the courtyard. He's not wearing his robes, just a t-shirt and jeans with giant holes in the knees and thighs— an outfit remarkably unsuitable for September in Scotland. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he powers through the courtyard, slowing down more and more the further he gets from North Tower.

He considers veering off and fucking around in some other section of the castle, but the idea of keeping tabs on Evan's patrolling footprints sounds like more work than its worth. So he enters Gryffindor Tower and lets himself into the Common Room. A group of third- or fourth-years are by the fireplace having a conversation, but it's otherwise empty. The lanterns are all out except those in the corner by the fire—they won't go out until the room is totally empty. He ignores his housemates and heads up the stairs to the Boys’ Dormitory.

He still can't shake the feeling that he just doesn't want to be here. All the things that used to make him feel warm and safe seem cold and dark now because he's seeing them all for the last time, and he knows he won't ever be able to go back. Each date he spends this year is his _last_ version of that date, and so far he's done—what? Wasted the whole week moping about the halls at night? Hexed James at breakfast daily? Fell asleep in every class? McGonagall's already given him a _look_ , one that says she's going to call him into her office sooner or later to have a word with him. The word in that instance is usually just her giving him the look again, in closer quarters with slightly more threat.

All the lights are off in their dormitory. Peter is curled up asleep on one side of his bed and, to his left, James is sprawled like a starfish across his own mattress, the blankets draped lazily over both him and the floor. Sirius's bed is made, the opposite of how he left it this morning before it was cleaned. Remus's bed is empty. 

Sirius walks past all of it to the far side of the room where the window is. There's a ledge big enough for him to sit on, one he's very familiar with in times like these. The moon, a surprisingly bright quarter-moon, is shining through, but it’s muddled by a thin layer of frost accumulated across the bottom half of the window.

He sits by the window, his knees to his chest, and takes out the map from its hiding place. He opens it with a whisper and watches footsteps pitter-patter across the parchment. 

There's never really anything that interesting going on after-hours; most people aren't as obnoxious as Sirius and his friends are with running about the castle. He sees Lily, moved on from the North Tower to one of the courtyards, pacing deliberately around the perimeter. The other prefects are walking with only half as much purpose, all at various points in the castle. Remus is on the lower level of Gryffindor tower, standing still for the moment.

McGonagall is in her classroom, presumably working late on something or other. Dumbledore is in his office, pacing as usual, not unlike the way Lily does. Most other students are in the dormitories or common rooms. Sirius notices Regulus in one of the corridors in the dungeons— he's with Snape and his jerk-off friends, the five of them standing in a lopsided circle. Sirius yawns and rubs his face. He hasn't spoken with Regulus since the train, and accidentally seeing him at breakfast the other morning was enough eye contact for the whole term. He's not ready to talk to him. He's never going to be ready to talk to him because, well, he doesn't want to be.

He must fall asleep at some point. He doesn’t remember much else, just the corridors and revolving rooms of the map on the backs of his eyelids.

He wakes up to the sound of the door closing far too loudly, and the subsequent hiss of _shit!_ from whoever just did it. Sirius focuses his eyes. Remus is back, tiptoeing towards his bed, his robes on and his face shrouded in the dark. Sirius coughs. Remus looks up, like he didn't realise anyone was there.

“Sirius?” he says. He had his hands in his pockets. He sounds far away. 

“Remus.” Sirius sits up straighter, the map crinkling against his knees. “That's a Knut for the swear jar.”

Remus doesn't actually look at him, just gives a small exhale that might be a laugh in the dark and begins pulling his trunk out from under his bed to change into his sleepwear. He tries to be quiet about it, glancing beside him at Peter curled in a ball in bed. Sirius watches him.

“I stayed up. I wanted to make sure you got in okay,” he says, scratching at his right palm with his left thumb. Remus pulls his trunk atop his bed with a soft _thump_ and begins to undo each latch, paying no mind to the conversation. 

Sirius thinks about getting up and walking across the room, but something keeps him planted, his backside cold from the frosty window. He grips the map again.

“Are you, Remus?”

“What?” Remus finally says. He's looking down at the trunk, the latches undone but the top not yet opened. His hands seem paused for a moment.

“Are you okay?”

Remus then re-latches the trunk without opening it. He shrugs off his robes and places them neatly on his nightstand. He's standing there in his trousers and button-down, his shirt tucked messily in, the right height for his frame but baggy around his stomach. Sirius always thinks he needs to eat more. He removes his belt and tie. 

“You're going to sleep in your day clothes,” Sirius says. He makes a face. _Because you that badly don't want to speak with me._

Remus sets his trunk on the floor and pulls off his shoes, sitting on the bedside with his back to Sirius. Sirius sees him exhale. He twists around and gets into bed.

“Sorry I burned up your Magical Creatures book. I'll make James buy you another one. It was sort of his fault, too, I mean...”

Remus finally looks over at Sirius. And Sirius must look actually dreadful, the light and shadow from the window mixing on his face, his knees still tightly drawn, his hands now clutching the map so tight it's wrinkled on both sides. He almost wants to shout, ‘wait!’ and re-ready himself for the moment, the look, the thing he's been asking for since Remus stopped giving it to him months ago. But this all he gets. Remus looking at him, reviewing him with a slow scan, and something like pity flashing in his eyes until he just looks away again.

“I'm okay,” he says. “I hope you are, too.”

Before Sirius can say anything back, Remus pulls the bed-curtains shut; a moment later, Sirius sees a small, dim _Lumos_ charm glow from behind them and hears the rustling of book pages. The curtains are too thick and dark to see through, only the dim light and the vaguest hint of a silhouette remain. He might as well be alone. 

He glances down at the Map and loosens his grip, smoothing the pages back out over his knees. He leans his head back against the window and surveys the drawn replica of the room. Remus Lupin, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black— all in opposite corners of the Gryffindor 7th Year Boys’ Dormitory. Sirius's footprints slightly off-center, further away from the others.

He turns, leaning sideways against the window, and curls his arms up between his chest and his knees. He can't really see outside, the frost too white and solid on the bottom half of the window where he sits. Just the moonlight, hazy but bright, glows around him. Sirius closes his eyes and falls almost instantly asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October draws near. Sirius focuses on his Quidditch skills. Regulus needs help with his Potions assignment.

**September 28, 1977. Wednesday.**

“And— Now!”

It's overcast and chilly today. Sirius doesn't have to worry about the sun in his eyes as he zooms through the air to the left then turns his broom sharply to the right, beater bat in both hands. The bludger hurtles towards him, unsteady on its course, crackling and snarling. 

He swings and the _clunk!_ resounds throughout the Quidditch pitch as the ball shoots off into the sky until neither Sirius nor James can see it. The new seeker, a precocious second-year and one in the row of four other Gryffindor players hovering in place low to the ground, starts clapping.

“Brilliant!” he shouts, elbowing the fourth-year chaser next to him in the side. She starts clapping too, only with slightly less enthusiasm.

James beams with something like pride, lowering his own broom down to the ground. Sirius wipes some sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

“If only our illustrious Captain Miss McKinnon was here to see that,” James announces, touching down on the ground in front of the rest of the team, “But _clearly_ you're all left in good hands. I know last year was… not our best year, but I'm expecting a fantastic turn-around, yes?”

Sirius notices the new seeker, hands still clasped together, is still looking right up at him. Sirius is sweating from the practice and the autumn air has turned the sweat instantly cold; he's only in a tank-top and shorts. All he can think about is going inside and sitting by the fire. Still, he smiles down at him, even if it comes out as more of a grimace. The fourth-year chaser waves at him. He waves back.

Sirius is trying to focus on things besides himself these last few weeks. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job.

James carries on with his speech, delivering some anecdote about how, when he was a third-year Gryffindor had the best season in twenty years and ever since then it's been going a little downhill, but you have to hit rock bottom to rise back up, and he really believes in this group and — somewhere in the middle of this, Marlene shows back up from where she'd gone to grab a new bat. She interrupts him from about ten feet away by yelling.

“Are they all model athletes yet, Jamie?” she asks, dragging her broom on the ground behind her as she approaches the group of them gathered in the middle of the pitch. Her beater bat is in her other hand.

James doesn't seem phased by being cut off. He instead gestures widely to Sirius. “A prodigy.”

“Oh, right.” She looks up at Sirius, seemingly perplexed why he's still ten feet in the air above everyone else. He slowly descends and touches down next to James as she arrives.

“What can I say?” he preens, inspecting his fingernails. He can feel everyone's eyes on him.

“Kids, take note. You too can _finally_ learn how to play Quidditch when you're in your seventh and final year of school,” Marlene says to the team, earning a snicker from two of them. Sirius rises swiftly off the ground again and flips to hang off his broom, quirking a brow at her upside-down.

“Very cute—” she starts, then widens her eyes, “Hey!”

“Aw, what?” Sirius mutters, stretching his arms out, dangling them below his head so they're about half a foot above the grass.

Marlene hops instantly on her broom and zooms what looks like directly towards him. She instead passes above him, but it's close enough for her jacket to catch on his knees, jerking him off balance with the momentum. He flops right off the broom, face first into the ground, the rest of his body swinging like a pendulum down behind it. He hears and only slightly sees the bludger he knocked away arrive back on scene; Marlene doesn't hit it but instead catches it with an “ _oof!_ ” as it knocks her back in the air. She holds onto it somehow.

Sirius sits up, grass and dirt stuck to his legs and matted in his hair. He spits out a piece of grass on the ground next to him. Marlene swoops back down to the ground in front of him, the bludger held tightly underneath her arm as it struggles to make a break for his face. Everyone's looking at him again, but for a different reason. She's breathing a little heavy.

“Someone get this out of here,” she says, and two people hurry up to her to wrestle the bludger away and towards the ball case. 

James runs over, his own broom in his hand, and stops in front of Sirius. 

“You okay?” 

“I did that on purpose,” Sirius says. He watches the seeker and a third chaser successfully pin the ball back down. Marlene scoffs.

“Okay, prodigy, you can go wash up. Take Potter with you, he looks a little too comfortable telling everyone what to do.” Marlene shrugs off her jacket to the ground, spinning her broom around to face the rest of the team. “You four, we're running quaffle drills before I cut you loose.”

James extends a hand to Sirius, pulling his goggles off his head with the other. He's not wearing his glasses underneath them so his eyes look a bit small, shaded by the messy curls of his hair. He smiles very big.

Sirius takes his hand and gets up with a grunt, picking his broom up and shuffling off towards the locker room. It's across the pitch, tucked in a corridor under the Gryffindor stands.

James gets in first, his robes and things neatly hung in his space on the far wall. The room is small, the walls and floor all wood, creaky in the cold. Sirius heads right for a washing sink near the door.

“You going to change?” James asks from across the small room.

“Later,” Sirius says, splashing water on his face and rubbing dirt off. He leaves his legs and hair for now.

“Disgusting,” James says, casting a quick, wordless cleaning charm on his glasses before putting them back on. He picks up his jumper — deep red knit, ‘POTTER’ in large, yellow letters across the back. It's one of his older ones, faded with time.

Sirius’s jumper he got just this year ended up being a size too small and rides up like a tight crop-top with three-quarter sleeves, but that hasn't stopped him from wearing it. He, however, forgot to bring it with him today.

“It builds character,” he mumbles, shaking some grass off one leg. 

Sirius can faintly hear the sound of Marlene shouting orders at the team outside, brooms whooshing overhead. He wrinkles his nose and sits down, kicking off his trainers both at once and grabbing his boots from where he'd left them near the bench.

“You're doing really well, though,” James says like he senses his unease, trying to pull his sweater down over his glasses with little success. His head is stuck just under the neck hole. Sirius slowly ties his shoelaces.

“I know,” he says back, “Don't worry, I'm not that emotionally invested. I promise I won't cry myself to sleep over Quidditch.”

“You'd be surprised,” James says, his head popping out from the sweater finally. He says that as someone that, Sirius knows, has cried himself to sleep over Quidditch before. Sirius smirks, still looking at his shoes.

James sits on the bench next to him, looking in the mirror and trying to fix his wind-swept, unruly hair.

“Are you still tired?” he asks, sticking his tongue out at his reflection. Sirius finishes one boot and starts in on the other.

“From last night? No, not really.”

The first full moon of the term last night was somewhat uneventful, but Sirius didn't really know what he'd expected in the first place. Part of him had worried that Remus might tell James to tell Peter to tell him that, sorry, he wasn’t invited out with them anymore, but that wasn't the case. It was instead remarkably ordinary. 

They all snuck off to the shrieking shack shortly before sundown, Remus somewhere between nervous and tired, tugging uncomfortably at his sweater and dragging his feet with each step. They sat there for a bit. Peter tried playing on the piano something that his mum — a proper Muggle — had tried to teach him over the summer, bumbling through it slowly and not without mistakes until James charmed the piano to play the melody impeccably fast. They both laughed as Peter tried to keep up. 

Remus sat himself against the closest wall, his knees up, watching. Sirius went and stood next to him, but not too close.

“Do you feel okay?” Sirius asked eventually.

“Not really. It's bad this month,” Remus said, still watching Peter and James. 

“So, what, no running timed laps tonight?” Sirius asked, “Because I was really looking forward to you beating James’ grand record from last year. The smug bastard.”

Remus glanced over at him. He smiled with one side of his mouth before looking away, but it felt, for a moment, like maybe he might've missed Sirius a little, too. Sirius hadn't really thought about that. All this free time he'd had so far this year, the nights he would've otherwise spent sitting by the fire with Remus while he read or convincing him to ditch class to go run around the grounds… Remus had that time, too. 

Sirius wondered what he'd been doing with it. How much he felt the gaping holes in his schedule. If he was also thinking about how ordinarily at a moment like this, Sirius would probably sit down, and Remus would lay his head on his shoulder, and everything would feel a little warmer—

“Lily and me are going to have some dessert together before curfew. You're invited.”

Sirius blinks, looking down at his shoelaces held frozen in his hands. James is looking at him. 

“Oh, you know, now that I think about it, I'm actually exhausted.”

“Come on!” James hits him on the shoulder, jostling the shoelaces out of his hands. James stands up. “You could do without being so rude to her. She thinks you're alright, you know? And we're getting married, so you—” 

“You're not getting married.” Sirius knots his shoe and drops both feet to the ground.

“Well, how do you know? The odds are not in your favour. I promise, you'll have to like her someday.”

“I _like_ her fine,” Sirius admits. He rolls his eyes. “I have a limited amount of social energy to split. Between Remus, Peter, and you — and you count for at least three people — I'm not really trying to invite anyone else into my exclusive inner circle.”

“You're going to die alone,” James says, comically squinting. Sirius shrugs.

“Probably.” 

He stands up as well, shivering a little in his shorts. He does like Evans. Even if she's flagged him down for wandering in the hallways after curfew about ten times this month alone — she never brought him to McGonagall for it, or took more than ten points, or even raised her voice at him. She's neurotic and invasive and a little overbearing. But she's alright. Sirius can't place his finger on why sometimes he just can't stand when her and James are in the same room, but he's chalking it up to his annoyance at most things this year.

“Come on,” James says in that tone he uses when he's a little miffed but won't say anything about it until he forgets about it two minutes later. He glances at Sirius’s bare legs.

“I think I'll get some cats. So I won't die alone, but, oh, I will never be allowed to be a dog in my own home again.”

“What about next Friday, will you be tired then?” James says, ignoring him. Sirius shrugs, so he goes on: “Lily organized the start of term Prefects’ Party and she, of course, asked me to go with, so I will. And that means I'll, of course, offer you to go with _me_ —”

“Is Remus going?” Sirius asks reflexively, then regrets it immediately because James gives him _that look_ before he awkwardly looks at the floor. All his annoyance, as expected, dissipates, but it's replaced with something much worse. Sirius makes a noise to signal his own irritation — sort of a half snort, half sigh. James holds the door open for him as they walk out the other side of the locker room, heading back towards the castle.

“Yes,” James says, kicking a rock, “Actually, you should ask him if he'll take you.”

“Are you mental?”

“No, but maybe he wants to talk to you, and you just won't ask, so of course he doesn’t.”

“Did he tell you that?” 

The sun is barely visible behind the clouds, but the orange light cast over the ground signals sunset just as well. The path back to the castle is sparsely populated, only a couple groups of other students lounging around on the grounds, most instead congregated in the courtyard up ahead or somewhere inside the castle.

“No, but—”

“He doesn't want to talk to me.” Sirius looks at James as if to dare him to carry on, and James groans and rolls his eyes, dropping it. 

“Either way, it's a big party. You can come as my +1.”

“Can +1's bring a +1?” 

“I'm Head Boy,” James says matter-of-factly. Sirius laughs and nudges him in the side as they walk into the courtyard, the soft grass turning to hard stone that clicks under his boots. James smiles back at him. Sirius is grateful it's so easy for him to slip out of a mood, even if he is a little jealous of the ability.

“Nah, I'm supposed to be helping Peter with his Potions this week anyway,” Sirius says, waving his hand.

“Wait, is that not your worst subject you're taking?”

“Right, but I still manage better than him. Don't tell him I said this, but he really shouldn't be in the course at all — he barely made an Acceptable on his OWL and Slughorn still let him in. I feel right bad. He gets so stressed.”

“Aw,” James says, smirking. 

Sirius bumps his side again, harder this time, as they arrive. Sirius looks up at the sky again, the hidden sun still low on the horizon, faint vestiges of stars visible higher up. The faded moon, a large waning gibbous, is directly above the castle. They go inside.

***

**3 October, 2018. Monday.**

“I'll be well honest: I didn't think you'd be a good captain. But you done changed me mind. Bravo, Reg.”

Avery is in his Quidditch jumper for no reason, the collar of his shirt bent asymmetrically over the neckline, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It's still grass-stained from practice yesterday. Absent is his beater bat and broom, but Regulus wouldn't be surprised if he pulled it out from under the library table right now.

“That's good. Your opinion was particularly important to me.”

Avery jabs him with the non-ink end of his quill, which equates to him brushing feathers aggressively against Regulus's forearm. Avery's books and parchment are spread all across his side of the table, no rhyme or reason to it.

“Still a massive twat, though.”

“Of course,” Regulus says, scanning his own Potions book for the same thing he's been trying to find for the last three minutes. All the text is starting to blur and his head hurts. The library is empty this time of day, most younger students have class, but somehow that's making it worse; the headache echoes, reverberates off all the empty space.

“Will you just let me help already?” Avery preens, leaning across the table. His own seventh-year Potions book is probably open _somewhere_ in his mess, but it's hidden in plain sight alongside three other textbooks.

Regulus, meanwhile, pulls his closer to him, looking up. “What could you possibly know that I don't?” 

“I'm a year ahead of you. I'll probably be, like, you know, an Auror. I think I know what I'm on about.”

“It's fine,” Regulus lies, closing the book, “I'm only doing supplementary research. I've already finished the assignment; I did it last night after curfew.”

“We were in the dungeon for hours!”

“I found time.” Regulus glances away, itching to change the subject. Some enchanted books are shelving themselves nearby.

“Whatever,” Avery says. He seems a little impressed, but his scowl wouldn't ever admit that. “Maybe you can help _me_. Are you taking Divination, because I really don't—”

“I'd probably rather die than take NEWT-level Divination.”

Avery slumps backwards in his chair, drumming his fingers on his unopened Divination textbook. “Me too,” he groans.

Regulus smirks, shrugging his shoulders. He stretches his neck and closes his book, chalking the venture up to a loss for now.

“Speaking of, don't you have class right—” he starts.

“Shut up,” Avery interrupts, threatening him with the back-end of his quill once more. He drops it to the table and stands up, beginning to sweep loose papers and half-open books off the table into his bag with his entire arm. “I'm fuckin’ going.”

“Tell me the dark secrets of my past and future, won't you?” 

“I'll jot it down,” Avery derides, leaning down menacingly close to Regulus to swipe up his quill. Regulus raises his hand in a half-hearted wave as Avery lets loose one last groan and shuffles away, trying to close his bag around all the papers sticking out, heading towards the North Tower.

Regulus sits a moment more with his book closed in front of him then decides to get up himself. He packs up and heads outside.

He isn’t wearing his robes today. He rolls down the sleeves of his shirt, smoothing out and buttoning the cuffs, and adjusts his bag on his shoulder. He's slowly getting used to all the free time he has this year — despite excelling on nearly all his OWLs, he's only taking six NEWT level classes to focus best. And Regulus has never needed to study _very_ much, so he's really just been taking time for himself these last few weeks. Going on long walks, sitting by the lake, reading books, drilling Quidditch alone on the pitch. It's easy to keep busy.

He walks out into one of the courtyards. It's rather full, students who have class transitioning. He weaves through the crowds effortlessly, finding himself on one of the grounds’ paths, winding out into the green grass. Several trees are around, students stopped at some; he doesn't really see anyone he knows, though it's not like he'd try to strike up a conversation. 

He walks a minute more before he notices Snape some feet off the path, piquing his interest. He doesn't notice him, or at the very least pretends not to. Snape seems to hate him extra vehemently this year. 

Last term it was mostly them ignoring each other, trading unimpressed looks or silently leaving the room when the other was there too long. Regulus has a lot of people in his own year who treat him like that; they find him intimidating or too wry, obnoxious or plain insufferable. He's quite used to it. But, this year, that familiar mutual distaste has escalated into almost entertainingly overt loathing from Snape.

Last Friday, for example: Regulus walked into study hall and said ‘good morning.’ Avery greeted him in good spirits and Wilkes adjusted his tie on sight with a nod. Regulus sat next to them, across from Rosier and Snape, who was hunched comically over a notebook, the tip of his quill in his mouth and his hair hanging in chunks over his eyes. 

He took immediate offense to the intrusion, disapproving audibly. Regulus made it a point to make eye contact and purse his lips a little.

“Oh, come on with this,” Snape sneered, moving to gather his things. He rose halfway out of his chair.

“Snape,” Rosier said, not looking up from his book, “Won't you be quiet? For once in your life, yes? Sit down.”

“I put up with Black all of spring. I'm not sure how much more I'm realistically able to handle,” he muttered, making no effort to sit or stand fully either way.

“We put up with you all the time,” Avery deadpanned, flicking ink diagonally across the table. At that, Snape slunk back down into his chair and resumed writing on his parchment, several ink splatters impeding his notes. 

Regulus smirked to himself. Snape noticed and ripped a hole in the parchment with the tip of his quill. So on, so forth. Regulus is sure it has something to do with Sirius, but he never heard what _happened_ near the end of last year—just the buzz that _something_ happened—so he can only speculate.

It'd be easy to say that everything Snape does to him is because of Sirius, but Regulus isn't so sure it's that simple. Surely some of it is that history; it's factually hard not to look at Regulus and think about Sirius. They're remarkably similar in appearance and, despite their differences, have the same penchant for commanding the attention of a room one way or another. But it's not like Regulus is a huge fan of people who sit in the corners of rooms and whinge about everything, which is all Snape ever seems to do. The not getting along is hardly one-sided.

At the core of things, though, Regulus isn't sure he really “gets along” with anyone. Most of his conversations with Avery and Wilkes end with them hissing or rolling their eyes at his endless commentary, and Rosier probably only tolerates him because the guy doesn't seem to be bothered by, frankly, anything at all. Snape's rather unlikeable, yes, but so is Regulus. It’s the one thing they seem to have in common. Maybe it's just hard to deal with someone so similar to you.

Snape’s sitting against a tree, his knees up and a notebook perched against them. 

He always has his nose in something; a notebook, a textbook, a novel, a photo album. Anything to keep from engaging with the rest of the world. Regulus finds the practice almost laughable, but there's something endearing about it anyway. He makes sure to announce his presence by kicking a rock along while he walks, pulling up tufts of grass with the back of his shoe with each swing. Snape looks up briefly and makes a trademark noise.

Regulus kicks the rock a final time into the tree itself, angling it upward. It hits just inches above the top of Snape's bowed head. The seventh-year already had his face back down in the notebook; from here, it's illegible, loads of tiny script and some numbers here and there. He flinches but doesn't look up again. 

“No class to Exceed Expectations at right now, Black? Bursting at the seams with free time?”

“I do have, in fact, all the time in the world,” Regulus says, the rock bouncing back down to earth in-between them. Snape glances over at the path he came from.

“Yet you have nothing better to do than stand here.”

Regulus makes a big show out of yawning. He drops his bag to the ground on top of the rock.

“You don't like me,” he says.

Snape continues to look out over the grounds, the walkways filling quickly with more students transitioning class. It's overcast again today, the sun hidden behind a thin layer of grey clouds, the trees stirring only slightly with a light breeze.

“What gave it away,” he replies unenthusiastically.

Regulus shrugs. He, too, watches the crowds filter by. Then he sits down cross-legged next to Snape, much to the latter’s supreme irritation .

“I'm not sure why. I don't have many friends, you don't have many friends— perhaps we're more alike than you think.”

“No,” Snape says, leering sideways at him, “We're not.” 

“Because I have higher marks than you? A more prestigious family? That's all of no consequence.”

Snape's eyes widen just a little. “Because you say things like that.”

“I'm being funny,” Regulus clarifies. 

Snape finally gives him a proper look and says, “Ha ha ha.”

Regulus adjusts himself on the uneven ground, a root of the tree digging into his lower back. He's not sure how Snape can look so comfortable, but Regulus has never been a huge fan of the outdoors. He blows air out one side of his mouth, following Snape's eyes as they watch the courtyard.

Some first- or second-years are roughhousing, shoving each other around and laughing, older students trying to warp around them as they walk. The crowd is beginning to thin, three times as small as when Regulus came out here. Snape seems to notice a group of three Gryffindor girls cutting through the courtyard from the castle from one of the side-walkways. They're about twenty feet away, oblivious to the two boys watching them. Regulus recognizes one as Lily Evans.

“Ah,” he says. Snape immediately ducks his head back to his notebook, as if he'd forgotten Regulus was there at all.

“What?” he mumbles.

“You're still hung up about her?” Regulus asks, hiking his thumb towards the group of girls.

“How's that any of your concern,” Snape says. His cheeks are a little flushed, his eyes hooded. Regulus scoffs.

“You—yes, even you—could do so much better. I mean, she's—”

“Say it. I dare you.” He's staring right at Regulus now, his brow furrowed. Regulus backs off. 

“Dating Potter,” he substitutes slowly, tilting his head. Snape pulls his knees a little closer and mutters something Regulus can't hear, but he probably wasn't actually speaking to him. 

Lily Evans and her friends enter the large double-doors of the castle at the far end of the courtyard. Regulus remembers two years ago when her and Snape duked it out here. He mostly remembers Sirius being there, obnoxiously leaning against the castle wall in the background while Potter and Snape had a go at each other, too.

“Would you like me to ask her over here next time?” Regulus jokes.

“No!” Snape says, stirring in his seat, “I'd like you to leave me alone, actually.”

“Fair,” Regulus says after a long pause, but he doesn't leave. He just leans against the tree and makes himself comfortable, something Snape seems at this point resigned to as he gives up protesting. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue and returns his attention to his notebook, but there's little intention in his writing — he's just dragging his pen loosely across the page, etching half-finished lines. 

Regulus takes out his wand and starts polishing it. They sit there like that for a little while, until well past when the courtyard has emptied and the only sounds are the trees in the wind and the occasional creature fluttering above.

“So you're, what, bored with the others?” Snape says eventually, still writing in his notebook.

“Them lot? Oh, I don't really like them.” 

Snape glances up at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Rosier absolutely loves you. He finds you—ah, what was the word. _Enigmatic_.” He scoffs and shakes his head, flipping to a new page. 

Regulus smirks at him, something which Snape seems perplexed by and doesn’t smile back. Regulus doesn't actually think he's ever seen him smile at anyone, even when they were younger.

“And he doesn't love you?” he says.

“Not likely. But I don't like him either,” Snape goes on. He's sketching a diagram of some sort. Regulus leans a little closer to get a better look, observing for a moment.

“Potions, is that? For class or, ehm, extracurricular?”

Snape seems surprised by the topic change, but doesn't flinch.

“Tease me all you want, Black. I'll be the one with a job when we graduate,” he replies. Regulus chuckles and sits back.

“I'm actually only asking,” he starts, “Because I’m a bit curious about something from my own lessons last week. I refused to let Avery help me.”

“Are you asking me to help you?” 

Snape seems, for a moment, surprised again, but it transitions to annoyance soon enough. Regulus leans further back against the tree, pulling his bag into his lap.

“Rosier told me you got highest in your year last year in Potions. I'd only ever ask someone with marks like that. I'm intending to earn the same, so.”

Snape narrows his eyes suspiciously at him. Regulus ignores him and goes on, “I've been attempting all weekend to brew a perfect Wiggenweld potion, but it's not turning yellow after I add the five lionfish spines. If you had any ideas—”

“Oh, please let me stop you,” Snape interrupts, sounding almost amused now, “I fail to see what I get out of this.”

“You think that's easy for me? Asking someone like you for help?”

“But aren't we _so similar_ ,” Snape says, looking at him. Regulus keeps his expression a steady neutral as he looks back, the breeze moving some of his hair into his eyes. 

“Funny,” he tuts. Snape shrugs.

Regulus eventually breaks the look by pushing the hair away with the back of his hand. He rummages around with his other hand in his bag, ultimately pulling out a large, silver coin purse. It jingles with weight and has his family's crest embroidered on one side.

He pulls out four Galleons and drops them over Snape's lap. “Sufficient?” 

Snape catches them. He blinks three times at the large, golden coins in his palm. You'd think he'd never seen more than a knut at a time, which of course Regulus figures might be true based on the quality of his school things and the irrelevance of his family. Perhaps four Galleons upfront is excessive, but Regulus has twenty-seven more in his coin bag and that's not even touching what he's got locked in his trunk in his dormitory. It's change to him. 

Snape seems, however, incredulous. He closes his fist around the money and stands up, his bag still on his shoulder and his notebook to his chest. He puts the coins in his pocket. He pauses, Regulus looking up at him with slight interest.

“You're embarrassing to be around,” he mumbles eventually, then walks off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fall is in full swing. Regulus fears he's in over his head. Sirius finally gets Remus to talk to him.

**6 October, 1977. Thursday.**

“ _Crucio_ ,” Rosier says. He speaks as idly as if he were ordering it as a dish in a restaurant.

Regulus’s pocket-watch clicks onward against his chest, just past the 11PM mark. It's the second time Rosier's cast the curse in the hour this session, both on Snape. Snape isn't responding to it particularly well.

Wilkes and Avery don't dare smile, but amusement is evident in their eyes and the way Wilkes leans over and whispers hurriedly into Avery's ear before they both clear their throats. Rosier doesn't actually seem to be paying attention to them; he's looking at Snape and telling him, in the tone their professors use, “if you can't even handle this, how do you expect to be of any use to the cause?”

Regulus is glancing between them, a twinge of pity for Snape forming in his throat as the older boy struggles to catch enough breath for a response. He can't get a word out — he just coughs in pain, the arm that was holding him in at least a mid-standing position giving out. He's certainly the least resilient of all of them, something Regulus initially found surprising. The only thing he's best at is hitting back, some misplaced anger fueling his counter spells, but even then he doesn't stand a chance against Rosier in top form. He's on his knees now, eyes screwed shut. 

This goes on for about thirty more seconds before Regulus, incredulous of even himself, interjects. 

“Oh, step off him already,” he announces, walking in front of Snape. Rosier cuts off the spell, swiping his wand down to the side. 

Nearby, Avery pulls his hands out of his pockets in annoyance. His Dark Mark, which he'd received recently and was showing the group of them sporadically and secretively at various points during the day, is barely peeking out over his rolled up sleeve.

“It's his go,” he says, “He can handle it, yeah? Or he wouldn't well be here in the first place.”

“Look at him. Clearly he's outclassed,” Regulus quips, looking back over his shoulder at Snape. 

The older boy again puts all his weight on one arm, wobbling under the pressure of trying to stand, his fingers splayed across the cold dungeon floor. There's no visible wounds on him — of course that's not how the Cruciatus curse works. It instead burrows somewhere deep underneath its victim’s skin, stimulating every nerve ending it can detect in sweeping, searing waves, untraceably agonizing. Snape's face is damp with sweat and he's clenching his teeth as he tries to speak. 

They’ve been at this for an hour; setting jinxes and curses on objects, the room, any unfortunate creature that wanders into their arena, and, most prominently, each other. Going around in an orderly line like they’re sitting a practical exam. 

They did this last term, of course. Regulus remembers the first time Rosier invited him down here with no explanation—how irritated Snape looked that he'd bothered to show up, the way Avery sniggered at him when Regulus’s eyes went a little wide as he realized what was going on. 

He had a few concerns.

**1.** They'd be caught. That's usually his first concern about most things. But that hadn't happened all last year and, so far, not this year either. He's not sure what the punishment even is for something like this if they were to be found out. Detention? Expulsion? Imprisonment? 

**2.** Something awful might happen. A rookie mistake or unfortunate misfire. That wasn't a particularly large worry when all they were doing last year was casting jelly leg jinxes and brewing vomit-inducing potion. It wasn't until this term that Rosier came down here and fired off an Unforgivable Curse on a passing rat like it was nothing at all. 

There was a moment—a long one, really—where they all looked down at the floor and Regulus weighed pros and cons of heading back upstairs and finding a new group of friends. Then Avery, always and ever eager, grinned and tried one out himself, shattering the tension with commentary. Wilkes eventually warmed up to the idea too, and though he's yet to cast anything, he's been eyeing Avery and Rosier for technique tips. Regulus and Snape haven't cast either. Regulus isn't very sure at all if he wants to. He worries about this most often. **3.** He might get a little too comfortable down here and end up, well, wanting to. 

Tonight, they’re standing in a loose circle at the dead end of one of the darkest, deepest corridors of the dungeon; looming ahead in the corridor are two large suits of armor that shield their activity from prying eyes with their shields raised. The protective wards Rosier and Regulus put up help with that, too, muffling sound and blurring their figures even in the dark. One single torch is lit in this dead end, illuminating large brick walls and floors as well as the clammy, sporadically bloodied and bruised bodies of the five boys in various levels of undress from their school robes. Snape is the only one still wearing every layer of clothing they started with.

“S-shut up, Black” he chokes out, looking accusingly at Regulus. Regulus raises a brow. He's trying to _help_ Snape, something he'd never admit and, he supposes, Snape would never admit either. Rosier respectfully lowers his wand and pockets it in the inner fabric of his robes.

“Very well. Get up, Severus. We'll pack it in for tonight. Simon should be studying for his Divination exam anyway.”

Avery pretends to choke himself with both hands while Snape, still shuddering and teetering about, pulls himself to a standing position and tries to appear dignified. He sidesteps out from behind Regulus and looks at the wall. 

“What, you Snape's guardian angel now?” Wilkes says, standing up from where he was seated on the nearest wall ledge, “Spoiling everyone's fun before it even arrives.”

“I'm not spoiling anything,” Regulus says, twirling his wand. “Have one off on me if you're so riled up, Francis.” He puts his hands out in invitation.

“Ugh—“ Wilkes starts, but Regulus is distracted by Avery as the seventh-year boy's eyes light up. It's unsurprisingly him that raises his wand at Regulus without another word besides _Okay! Crucio!_

The wave of pain crashes over him, always starting at the tips of his fingers and toes and flooding ruthlessly upward until it collates in his torso, layered on top of itself, throbbing at a brisk tempo. He inhales, nearly dropping his wand from the shock. He bites down on his tongue and doesn't make a sound.

Wilkes smiles nervously, like he's unsure if he's allowed to, but Avery sounds off a laugh and it gives him official permission to join in. They both stand there, chuckling, Wilkes now with his hands in his pockets and Avery with his wand still aimed at Regulus, his wrist rolled to one side.

Regulus stays standing. His pain tolerance is impressive and his experience with it is extensive, but even so, he knows his eyes are watering and he's beginning to breathe in shorter, strained bursts. He bites his lower lip, his legs plagued with a burning sensation and his arms feeling as if someone's stuffed each individual pore with a foot-long pin. 

“ _Wow_ , he's really good,” Wilkes says, sound off an impressed sigh. He sneaks a look at Rosier, but Rosier is looking at Regulus, one hand inside his robes to pull out his wand if he needs to. He, of course, doesn't. Regulus is sure he could curl into the fetal position on the floor sobbing and all Rosier might do is stand there and look vaguely unimpressed.

At once from behind Regulus there's a crackling flash of light. 

A moment later, Wilkes and Avery are both hanging upside-down in the air, one ankle suspended by an invisible force. Avery drops his wand and all pressure vanishes from Regulus’s body, leaving him with a warm, rubbery feeling in all his limbs as they adjust to the lack of pain. He coughs and looks back to see Snape, wand raised, eyeing Avery and Wilkes. 

“Prick! That's no fair, is it?” Avery shouts. He starts flailing his arms around, stretching his fingers to reach for his wand. A few Sickles fall to the floor out of Wilkes’ pockets, clinking against the stone and echoing down the hall. He groans and curses.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings. Perhaps stop having so much fun,” Snape says, crossing his arms. Regulus, despite himself, smirks. 

Rosier only then pulls out his wand and jerks it upwards, reducing Avery and Wilkes to a tangled ball of limbs on the ground as they each bump their head against the other on the way down. Regulus glances over at Snape and thinks he might actually, honestly, genuinely see him smirking a little, too. He's about to comment on it, and—

“Do you think I asked you all here to jinx each other for ‘fun’ like a bunch of first-year children in the courtyard? Do you think wars are won by your incompetent brand of unfathomable insolence?”

Regulus makes a face. “You've all so effectively waned my enthusiasm for our extracurriculars. Nice job. I don't change my mind about much, after all, but this—”

“Let me ask you this, Regulus: do you not imagine yourself destined for things greater than the limits of this castle?”

Rosier is looking at him, and his face is difficult to read. Avery and Wilkes have settled down, both sitting on the floor somewhere between irritated and embarrassed. Snape is watching Regulus; the younger boy can feel the gaze on the side of his cheek.

“Of course I do,” Regulus says, sliding his robes back off his shoulders and laying them neatly across his folded arm in front of him. His other hand, holding his wand, gestures towards Avery and Wilkes. “I only fear I'm not evenly matched.”

Rosier seems to find that a bit amusing — dangerously amusing, even, his eyes somehow briefly glimmering despite the absence of brightness in the dim torchlight of the dungeon. Avery takes immediate offense on the matter, rising swiftly back to his feet and pulling Wilkes up with him, holding his own wand pointedly at Regulus once more. Rosier finally just puts a hand steady on his shoulder.

“We'll pack it in for tonight,” he repeats, squeezing Avery tight. He lets go, turns, and heads back towards the Common Room.

The four of them are left stood there, everyone's wand drawn, Avery looking like the vein in his forehead is going to pop out and zip down the hall like a rogue bludger. Wilkes just looks annoyed. Snape still has his arms crossed, but he's looking off elsewhere now. Regulus clears his throat.

“I'd say it was a pleasure, but I don't like to lie. Nice Orbis jinx earlier, though, Wilkes. You almost made Rosier scream at you.”

Avery and Wilkes exchange a look, then return their attention to Regulus. They seem civil but still annoyed: their default state around him.

“Hm. My dad always said Blacks were massively pompous show-offs,” Wilkes mutters. Regulus smiles, almost innocently, and Avery rolls his eyes with a scoff. 

“Come on. I do need to study,” he complains, shuffling forward. Wilkes pockets his wand and shrugs. Regulus does the same.

The three of them walk off together. Regulus turns and looks back at Snape, gesturing for him to follow. Snape watches him for a moment, then shakes his head and sits down, pulling out his notebook from his robes. Regulus frowns and carries on anyway, soundly ignoring the unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

****

***

Peter is snoring loudly, one arm dangling off the sofa and the other curled neatly up underneath his head. His legs are draped up over the armrest, feet dangling below, warmed by his wool socks and the gentle, crackling fire in the fireplace of the Gryffindor Common Room. It's late, but not too late. Sirius heard the clock strike 10PM shortly before Peter fell asleep mid-way through their Charms studying session— or, rather, before Peter fell asleep after rolling away in frustration at his inability to successfully use an _Aguamenti_ charm even with Sirius’s extensive and exhaustive assistance.

It's been about another hour since then, filled only with Sirius’s repeated attempts to himself nonverbally conjure water into a small glass bowl on the crimson oak table. He has his wand steadied in his left hand, the sweeping right-to-left motion down to a tee, but the charm isn't taking tonight. He's not awful at nonverbal magic; he's the only one in their course able to nonverbally conjure fire and ice, but water keeps tripping him up. Every fourth or so attempt he'll manage to manifest a few droplets, perhaps even a hearty puddle, but they'll evaporate away as soon as they appear, as if they're being dropped onto a stack of hot coals. 

He knows he's not a very good teacher, for Peter or for himself. They haven't even touched Potions yet. The other students in the Common Room, a group of younger girls, have been looking at him funny for the last ten minutes as his patience grew smaller and his cursing louder. He finally stands up and flicks his wand to send the bowl sliding across the table. It falls off the edge and lands on the carpet, rolling onto its side and rocking back and forth as he takes his jacket from over the couch and pulls it on.

“Where you going so late, Sirius?” one of the girls remarks. She's a Chaser from the Quidditch team, the one Sirius can never remember the name of.

“Wouldn't you like to know.” He smirks and delivers a curtsy as he exits the room, finding himself in the chilly, still air of one of many stairwells. 

He slips the Marauders’ Map out from the inner pocket of his jacket, scanning very quickly. James Potter, Lily Evans, Remus Lupin, et al.: down three floors in the northwest corner of the dungeons, having a proper, school-sanctioned good time. Sirius takes the stairs down two at a time, his bare legs under his sleeping shorts covered in goosebumps. He heads to the dungeons. 

He puts the map away as he arrives at the lowest floor of the castle, the location of the inter-house Prefects’ party memorized already from looking at it constantly on his trek down. Now that he's here, though, he's not entirely sure what he'd been planning on doing. Bursting in and crashing with a loud, bad joke? Making laps around the room, finishing everyone's unfinished drinks behind their backs? Tackling James into the middle of the room and summoning their brooms here to impress the crowd? He knows James would let him, he'd love it even, but he can't shake the feeling that he wouldn't exactly be _welcome_. He can't shake that feeling about anything this year. 

He comes to a fork in the corridors where he knows the party is to the left, so he takes a right. He wanders aimlessly for a while, most things familiar. Whether it's alone or with his friends, Sirius has so thoroughly explored Hogwarts he thinks he could walk it in his sleep like clockwork. This is simultaneously comforting and disappointing. He likes surprises and secrets: the idea that there's something more here for him. That he isn't able to tie things up and leave just yet.

As he ponders on this, he gets what he wished for. As he passes an equally bland section of wall, some inner clock must click; the stone in one section of the wall rotates away, the noise low and creaky, revealing a secret corridor. Sirius almost walks past it and then skids to a stop, backing up at double speed. He grins and ducks inside.

He's impressed that he's never been down this corridor before. He thought he'd exhausted every nook and cranny of the dungeons by the third term of fourth year. But this one is starkly unfamiliar, water dripping slowly from cracks in the dark, stone ceiling. There are two armored knight statues in the middle of the hall, one on each side, towering over him with great-swords steadied at their sides. The far half of the corridor is shrouded in darkness, the torches out. He then remembers where he must be — this is the corridor he keeps seeing Regulus and his cronies skulking around in the dead of night in, their footsteps always congregated in the white space behind where one of the stone knights stands. One of few secret passages not marked on the map. He's been meaning to investigate.

The air is too quiet to take the map out. Sirius fears the crinkle of paper would awaken one of the sleeping knights and he'd end up in the hospital wing with a stone great-sword through his back, so he carries on without it, trusting his gut. He glances both ways and makes his way towards the two knights, stepping tenderly between their stare-off. He crouches down and places his hands against the stone of one of them, feeling for switches or indents. It's cold and damp to the touch, and the goosebumps from his legs travel up his stomach and down his arms. He shivers.

He feels all around the knight's armor, front and back and sides, knocking and rubbing anything that sticks out suspiciously. Nothing budges. He has to climb up on the base and stand on his toes to reach the head and shoulders, running his fingers along the available underside of the shoulder plates and poking inside each slit of the helmet visor. He leans up close at eye level with the knight, squinting as he feels around. 

He hears hurried footsteps from the darkness down the hall.

Sirius jumps off the statue and stumbles into the middle of the corridor, pulling his wand from his pocket at the same time and aiming it down the hall into the dark. He holds his breath, advancing slowly, wand at the ready.

There's another noise — more scrambling of feet, the _whoosh_ of clothing, and what distinctly sounds like someone sneezing. Sirius, on instinct, lets off a nonverbal _Flipendo_ jinx.

“Ouch!” he hears, followed by the sound of whoever he hit slamming back against the far wall.

“Who's there? That you, Snivellus?” Sirius calls, straining to see into the dark.

Out from the shadows steps a boy barely half of Sirius’s height, his wavy blonde hair messy from the jinx. Sirius relaxes his body immediately as he recognizes Gilderoy Lockhart, the second-year Ravenclaw that always follows James and him around begging for attention.

“Son of a bitch. Why are you wriggling around like a flobberworm down here? I could've killed you. You’d be a pile of sparkly ashes, and I'd be in Azkaban for doing everyone a favor,” Sirius says, lowering his wand. 

Lockhart crosses his arms. He's somehow dressed like he's going to the ball, sporting a bright purple bowtie, tucked in dress shirt, and a fabulously bright purple cloak to top it off. Sirius starts to wonder if that's just what he sleeps in every night.

“I came simply to attend the party,” he explains, talking like what he has to say is in any way important, “But as I passed by I decided I'd better explore these dungeons instead! Get on to making sure they're safe and sound for the first-years.”

Sirius looks at him. Lockhart adjusts his cloak and smiles with all his teeth. “What's _your_ excuse, Sirius?”

“Oh, Lockhart, my excuse is that I'm much older than you and good, good friends with every Gryffindor Prefect in that room. I'm sure they'd just love to tell Flitwick to take points from our least favorite nosy little imp.”

“Terribly rude! You've really got that ‘bad boy’ thing down, Sirius Black. I mean, you almost nicked me with that jinx, but I'm thankfully quite nimble,” Lockhart says back, chuckling somewhere between heartily and nervously. His silk cloak is shimmering in the torchlight; he pauses a moment to gauge Sirius's reaction. Upon seeing not even a hint of a smile cross the older boy's face at his jesting, he chuckles again — more nervous than anything else this time. He's still grinning and standing as tall as a second-year can make themselves. “Nonetheless, yes, I'll be on my way!”

“You'd best be,” Sirius lectures, wagging his wand at Lockhart as the boy struts past him, his cloak swelling from the swift motion. After he turns the corner, Sirius is again alone in the corridor in just his socks, shorts, t-shirt, and large leather jacket.

“Mental case,” he mumbles, his eyes following the path Lockhart disappeared down. He hopes he won't try to speak to him at breakfast about this. 

After he's sure Lockhart has wandered back off to whatever hole he crawled out of, Sirius leaves the corridor and goes left, towards his original destination. He can see the light coming from one of the rooms near the end of the next hallway.

Before he can get too close, the large wooden door creaks open. Lily Evans and Remus walks out. 

From this distance, all he can see is Lily's long red hair neatly curled around her neck as she holds Remus’s hand and walks him out the door of the empty classroom the Prefects were in. Remus stumbles over the step and coughs loudly, Lily catching him as he falls.

“Easy, now,” she says, laughing. Someone from inside the room is shouting at them, something that sounds like ‘drink water!’. Remus twists around and loudly shushes them, gripping Lily's arm tightly as she walks him away. 

“I'm so glad you had a good time,” she teases. Remus is stepping somewhat in time with her—or trying his best, anyway—the two of them turning towards where Sirius is and beginning to walk down the hall. Sirius quickly ducks behind the closest statue, twirling his wand quickly around himself to cast a disillusionment charm and hide.

As the two Prefects walk by, he sees Remus is carrying his sweater and in his just his t-shirt and trousers, the shirt half untucked by now. He can tell he's been drinking from how flushed he is. Remus swings his arm, Lily's hand in his, and remains oblivious to passing by Sirius.

A beat passes before Sirius scurries out from his hiding place and, still crouched, follows his friends down the hall from a safe distance. He evades notice the whole walk, hiding behind various shelves and statues like he's in one of those James Bond films Lily and Peter have referenced before. They don't seem to be suspicious of any pursuit anyway; they spend most of the walk back to the Gryffindor dormitories talking. It's mostly Lily teasing Remus for his animated and nonsensical responses and the way he can't seem to walk in a straight line.

Sirius doesn't see Remus drink very often—in fact, his werewolf curse makes him extraordinarily hardy in the face of alcohol. It takes more than a few drinks to get him buzzed, and an excessive amount even by Sirius’s standards to get him this far gone. Sirius can't even remember if he's ever seen him this drunk before, the closest second being last Christmas. He's almost jealous he wasn't there for this time… Like Lily Evans is his best friend, like she's the person he should trust to take care of him when Sirius is standing right here, always willing to keep an eye on him—

Remus accidentally hits his toe against a statue on the stairwell, knocking a piece of loose stone down the stairs. He gasps and holds the railing, shaking his head.

“Fuck,” he says. Sirius widens his eyes a little.

“If anyone asks, we'll tell them that was James.” Lily guides him up around the corner and up the last few stairs, onto the landing of the Common Room entrance. Sirius stays hidden around the corner. “We should go out drinking sometime again, just us. You can't tell anyone I suggested that. But I think we'd've earned it, you know.”

“Lily, I've never had a drink in my life,” Remus says matter-of-factly. Lily laughs a last time and holds him by the shoulders as she guides him through the portrait, the disapproving commentary of the Fat Lady echoing after them. 

Sirius stays crouched in place for at least five minutes, listening to each individual tick-tick-tick of the closest clock. He eventually stands up and tip-toes over to the entrance to the Common Room where the Fat Lady has gone back to sleep. He raises his hand and knocks on the frame of the painting.

“ _Thunderbird,_ ,” he says in a low voice, “Wake up. Let me in.”

She stirs, opening her eyes and waving her hand at him.

“You need to stay in your room, Mr. Black. How am I meant to ever get any beauty sleep with you demanding to come in and out at every ungodly hour of the night?”

“You don't need beauty sleep, love, you're as beautiful as they come,” Sirius says, quirking a brow. She stands up straighter and tosses her hair over her shoulder, muttering to herself but ultimately swinging open to let him in. He rolls his eyes and hurries inside, glancing one last time behind him as the door pulls shut.

It's late enough now that the Common Room has cleared out. The fire is still kindling, a gentle crackling in the otherwise silent room. It's dark sans the firelight and moonlight filtering through the windows, and Remus is curled up in one corner of the sofa.

He lifts his head when Sirius enters, craning his neck to peek over the cushion at the source of the footsteps. When he sees it's just Sirius, he sniffs and descends back down. Sirius catches only a glimpse of him — his hair disheveled by the evening, his eyes reddened from the liquor, his lips dry from the air. Looking at Remus, even when he's being particularly cold, always makes Sirius feel just a little bit warm.

He walks around and stands at the side of the sofa, eyeing the other boy.

“Evening.”

“No. No, I'm reading,” Remus says, sounding quite silly. Sirius looks at the book Remus has cuddled close, _A Complete History of the Order of Merlin, Vol. 1_ ; he's holding it open in front of his face… upside-down.

“Hi Reading, I'm Sirius,” Sirius says, reaching over and turning the book right side up. Remus laughs in that way he does when he's irritated, sarcastically and only through his nose, and drops the book down into his lap.

“I _was_ reading.”

“Would you like to go up to bed?”

“Why do people keep asking that? I'm not tired.”

“You smell like a distillery, Moony. This would be embarrassing even for me, so that means it's especially, particularly, exceptionally embarrassing for you.” Sirius smiles.

“Why are you talking to me like you think I want to be in the same room as you?” Remus mumbles, leaning his head sideways against the back cushion of the sofa, his cheek pressed against the embroidery. He's uncharacteristically _direct_ when he drinks; last year, when they all but bought out the pub in Hogsmeade one Saturday, he told Francis Wilkes that he looked like a flattened Billiwig.

“Oh, come on.” Sirius vaults over to sit on the arm of the sofa, his knees close to where Remus's feet are curled up.

“No, not come on.” Remus tries to sit up, the plump cushions of the sofa making it difficult for him to rise out of them. “I don't want to talk to you. I'm sorry to be rude, but I don't.”

“I want to talk to you.”

“But I don't want to talk to you.”

Sirius leans over to assist him, wedging a hand between the back cushion and his bony shoulder to lift him. He smirks. “But I want to talk to you.” 

“Sirius—”

“Let's talk. I'm talking, you're talking, we're talking, very simple stuff—”

“You're being selfish!” Remus says at shocking volume, loudly enough for Sirius to pull his hand away and accidentally knock Remus’s book to the carpeted floor. Remus gives up trying to escape the sofa and begins to sink back down, exhaling as he returns to resting his head against the back cushion. “You're being selfish, Sirius.”

“O-kay,” Sirius drags out, returning slowly to his previous sitting position. He tries not to make any noise as he moves, disturb the room any further with his presence.

“No,” Remus mumbles, hiccuping as he lowers his voice, “Just please go away.”

“Tell me how I'm selfish. I'm not trying to be. Really, I think _you're_ being a little—”

“I could've killed him.”

Sirius blinks. Remus is _very direct_ when he drinks — all these months, and he'd never actually said anything close to, ‘I'm upset with you because you put me in a situation where I could've killed someone.’ He'd never said anything, actually. He'd just shut down, as Remus does; stopped wanting to look at him, speak with him, sit with him, deal with him. He'd disappeared into himself, everything else implied.

Hearing it is a little stark, but Sirius is good at being indignant. 

“Well—” he goes on.

“You could've made me kill someone. And _I_ would have had to live with that but, really, all you're worried about is that I don't want to sit with you in class?”

“Well—” Sirius bends over, picking up the book by its spine. 

“Well?”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” 

Remus looks at him, unsurprised that he asked. Sirius looks back.

“I need space.”

Sirius frowns.

“Sorry, Remus, and how much space did you need? Let me jot the number down. Were fucking months not enough? Need to spend our whole last year getting ‘space,’ do you? Not sure how much more I have to give you.” 

“At what point did you give me any?” Remus asks, his eyes going slightly wide the same way they do when he gets a question wrong in class. He's talking loudly, his voice half an octave too high.

“Sorry?”

“At What Point Did You Give Me Any?” he repeats, capitalizing every word, “When you followed me around campus all spring term? When you try to sit next to me in every classroom after I specifically sit across the row? Or was it when you wrote me letters every single day of summer break even when I didn't respond to a single one. You just thought you'd write another and I'd get back to you then?”

Sirius, if it were anyone else spouting off at him like this, would be inclined to get angry. The tips of his ears would simmer and he'd stand up; he'd raise his voice and point his index finger until he stormed out the room, resentful and entitled. He's good at getting angry. It's his default reactive state, but he doesn't get angry now because Remus looks upset. Not angry, not distraught, not even impatient: he just looks upset. Sirius has made him upset.

“I miss you,” Sirius says. He hates how _ridiculous_ he sounds. Remus makes him truly and potently ridiculous.

He can't stand the thought of another minute without him, every wasted second of this year—their _last_ year—eating away at his insides. James is worried about Quidditch. Lily is worried about house points. Peter is worried about passing his NEWTs. Sirius is worried about graduating and stepping out into the darkest version of the world he's ever known, where every street and corridor looks something like his unbearable family home and everyone he's ever loved is at risk of disintegrating into the ground at any given moment. He's worried about stepping out there and Remus not being next to him. Not being in his direct, secure line of sight. Losing him somewhere.

Remus exhales. “You're not listening to me.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Listen to me. I miss you too, but it's not that easy—”

“You miss me too?”

“Sirius!”

Remus throws a pillow at him, his drunken aim resulting in the cushion bouncing clumsily off the side of Sirius's arm. It tumbles to the floor

“Okay,” Sirius says, taking a breath, “Someone almost died because of me.”

“Yes. You did that, you did that to me, and you never even apologized.”

“I apologized,” Sirius balks.

“No, you didn't.”

Sirius sits up straighter, ready to cite every individual letter he addressed to Remus this summer. Page number, line indicator, I said sorry exactly here, here, here, and here. Ready to call Remus out for not even, apparently, reading the parchment Sirius spent long, moonlit hours drafting with his head against James’s warm windowpane. 

Then he thinks on what he actually wrote down—not what he thought or what he felt, but what he wrote and sent out with his owl every Monday morning. ‘Sorry you're upset.’ ‘Sorry we're not speaking.’ ‘Sorry you probably miss me.’ ‘Sorry things went the way they did.’ Not a single instance of: ‘sorry I put you in a situation where you could've killed someone.’

Sirius suddenly feels tired. He wrinkles his nose.

“Alright, I'm sorry—” he starts defensively. Remus groans.

“It doesn't matter now.”

“Okay, well—”

“I _need_ space. You're suffocating me, Sirius, and I need you to give me—”

The prince of being tactless, despite himself, Sirius hastily interrupts him: “You're being dramatic, aren't you? Like, he's fine anyway—”

“But it wasn't about him! And it wasn't about James. It wasn't even about me, honestly. It was all about you. All you're thinking about is—sometimes it's like you only ever do things for, for, for—” He struggles to speak, exasperated. He gestures widely towards Sirius. “For you.”

Sirius twists the book in his hands, picking absently at the frayed thread of the binding peeking over the top of the spine. He glances out the window, at the dark evening, where it's not snowing but it just looks cold — the trees branches below are rustling in the wind and any creatures are skittering quickly to get to their warm dens. He shivers. 

“So you hate me. This is the part where you hate me.”

Remus makes a noise from where his face is now smashed into the cushion. It sounds something like, “ _Mgm’on ha’mem y’oom._ ”

“I don't speak sofa,” Sirius says, realising that he's trying very hard not to cry. His head aches and there's something stuck in his throat. Remus lifts his head and rolls his eyes. He looks sleepy.

“I said I don't hate you. I said that's absurd. Where's my book?”

Sirius pulls the book out from where it had begun to slip between his legs with his fiddling, holding it by the corner. He tosses it to Remus.

“Sorry.”

“I'm not ready. I can't— not now. Not right now. I'm not ready for you right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been moving house this month, but hopefully updates will be regular again now ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Thank you to everyone who's given kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid-October, the first Quidditch match of the season is coming up. Regulus’s team practice doesn't go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I renamed this fic. What was once titled after a Front Bottoms song is now... titled after a different Front Bottoms song lmao. The first one was kind of just my WIP name anyway, so!! 
> 
> Anyway, here is this Regulus chapter with flashbacks and sad times~ Thank you again to everyone who reads/kudos/comments/shares! :')

**15 October, 1977. Saturday.**

Regulus skips out on breakfast. He's sure Crouch is looking over and under the table for him—the kid said the other day he wanted to show him some kind of unsolicited charms demonstration—so he doesn't feel the least bit bad about missing the attention. But he's sore in all the wrong places, his knees groaning as he walks and his head plagued by a dull pounding that coffee couldn't even fix. He gets dressed, packs his things, and goes to the library to read before Quidditch as the sun rises. It's hovering thoughtfully just above the horizon now, shining directly through the eastern windows, the stained glass blues and reds reflected onto the tables.

He'd be perfectly alone if Remus Lupin wasn't sitting three tables down, a single, thick book open in front of him as he reads intently, trailing one finger along the page, the sunlight from the nearby window highlighting just one side of his face. He doesn’t seem particularly worried about anyone else being there or not. Regulus leans backwards in his chair, the front legs teetering off the ground, looking down his nose at his own book, _De revolutionibus orbium coelestium _by Copernicus.__

__Astronomy is Regulus’s best and most favourite subject, but he'd never say so to anyone who asked. It wouldn't be seen in a particularly favorable light, and even he gets that there’s admittedly logic in scorning a subject that is effectively useless to any half-witted wizard who could better be applying brain power anywhere else. Regulus is one of only two Slytherin students in his year taking NEWT-level Astronomy, the other a Muggle-born girl who apparently inherited a love of the subject from her father. Regulus hates being in the same room as her, sharing the same air; he relishes in the fact that all the houses take one class together so they won't have to speak._ _

__He's much more inclined to flaunt his Defense Against the Dark Arts prowess to others, something all his housemates find both ironic and useful knowledge for him to have, and something that, of course, relies entirely on his ability to do magic. Astronomy isn't very magical at all—it's a subject any Muggle could do if they put their mind to it. That gives it a particularly tart aftertaste, the constant fear that one night Regulus will be using a telescope and the next he's going to run off and start riding rollercoasters or watching television with the masses._ _

__Despite it all, he’s always been drawn to the stars. Some weeks the only thing he manages to look forward to is scaling the Astronomy Tower at midnight on Wednesday, pressing his eye to the lens of his golden telescope, and disappearing somewhere else._ _

__Snape sits down at the table across from him, not wearing any robes, his tie only half tied._ _

__“Hello,” he says, squinting through the sunlight. Regulus isn't particularly surprised that he's not a morning person._ _

__“Skipping breakfast, Severus? You?”_ _

__Snape is always scarfing down any food set in front of him. Avery jokes that it must be because his family's too poor to afford proper meals when he's at home, but Regulus isn't so sure there isn't truth in that. Snape materializes a semi-smushed croissant from his lap and takes a bite._ _

__“Mind yourself, Black,” he says while chewing, glancing down at Copernicus, “Astronomy? You?”_ _

__“I need to fill my bursting, exhaustive schedule up with _something_.”_ _

__“Well, put it away.” Snape swallows and leans across the table, his elbows creaking it on its unsteady legs, and pulls again from his lap a large, worn Potions textbook. Regulus recognizes it as the text for his course, but this particular version is marked by various papers and bookmarks sticking every which way out of it, notes scribbled in Snape's illegible penmanship. He drops it in front of Regulus._ _

__“Oh?” Regulus gingerly lifts the front cover of the book with just two fingers, wrinkling his nose at the dusty, somewhat damp texture. He lets it go and dust poufs up into his face. He makes a small show out of coughing._ _

__“Don't you still want my help? Or have you changed your mind?”_ _

__“I don't change my mind about many things,” Regulus says, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his fingers that touched the book, “You didn't seem very enthusiastic about it the other week, though.”_ _

__“I'd like to buy my mum something nice for the holidays. Pay me what you paid me then, every day we do this, and I'm happy to help you.”_ _

__Regulus laughs loud enough to get the attention of Lupin, who seems to consider leaving as soon as he notices who he's sharing the library with. Snape scowls._ _

__“Have it your way,” he says, grabbing for his book with both hands and yanking it to the middle of the table. Regulus lowers his chair so the front two legs thud on the ground._ _

__“Easy, easy. I just thought that was very funny.”_ _

__“I'm not joking.”_ _

__“That's why it's funny,” Regulus says, “Yes, that's a fine deal. Do you talk about anything besides school?”_ _

__“You're not paying me to be your friend.” Snape waves his croissant at Regulus before taking another bite._ _

__“I'm just saying you're boring, and I do need to be stimulated to learn.”_ _

__Snape looks at him until he stops talking._ _

__“Are you done?” he says then, drumming four fingers on the Potions book. Regulus tucks his handkerchief back in his pocket and instead pulls out his coin purse once more, flicking a five-galleon coin across the table so it hits Snape in the chest before falling to his lap. Snape scrambles to grab it, dropping the last part of his croissant on the table in the effort._ _

__“For now.” Regulus stands up, tucks his Copernicus book into his shoulder bag, and pushes his chair in. “I have Quidditch practice soon, but I’m free afterwards. Come on, let's go for a walk.”_ _

__“What are you looking at?” Snape sneers suddenly, turning his nose up at the other table where Lupin has loudly pushed his chair in, also standing, his things gathered in his arms. Lupin pauses._ _

__“I'm not looking at anything.” Lupin glances between Snape and Regulus. “I'm going.”_ _

__“You don't want to take a walk with us?” Regulus says. He says it just to annoy Snape. It works fabulously._ _

__“Oh, I can't imagine that would be very fun for any of us,” Lupin replies, smiles politely, and walks out the library door._ _

__Snape makes a noise and starts shoving his oversized book into his undersized bag, then picks up the croissant remains and crams them in there too, crumbs and all. He stands up._ _

__“Let's go,” he agrees reluctantly, tapping Regulus on the elbow and leading the way for them to make a swift exit. They meander around the corridors, pining for something to kill the remaining time before class. Regulus stands, grabs his broom and things, and walks with the slightest limp, his ankles sore from a binding jinx last night._ _

__“You alright?” Snape asks, measuring his voice to sound like he's reading off a textbook with limited interest._ _

__“Which part of me? This part?” Regulus lifts his arm, the sleeve of his robe falling down to reveal the deep burn marks on his wrist from Rosier's binding curse. “Or this?” He turns his palm over, the back of his forearm home to the deep puncture wound from Wilkes's latest custom hex. “I'm building quite the collection.”_ _

__“That's your own fault. Maybe you should turn off being class champion when it involves bodily injury. I doubt you'll get a gold star for this brand of heroism.”_ _

__“I'm not out for gold stars, please.”_ _

__“What are you out for?” Snape looks at him as they head down the stairs, towards the back exit of the castle. The halls aren't particularly populated, the weekend morning still early and the students still, as usual, lazy. Regulus meets Snape's gaze, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. They haven't really spoken about last week, where Regulus all but put himself out for Snape's sake in the dungeons, but Regulus doesn't actually have anything to say—he felt bad for him, and he knows Snape doesn't want anyone to feel _bad_ for him, so there's no talking point there._ _

__He shrugs._ _

__They fall into step as they exit to the courtyard, Snape stretching his arms high above his head once they're outside. It's empty out here, sans the very same Remus Lupin now perched on a bench, his legs up and that same thick book open against his knees. Regulus gestures._ _

__“You kicked him out of the library. You going to kick him off grounds, too?”_ _

__“Can't ever fucking avoid them, I swear,” Snape mumbles, shooting daggers with his eyes towards an oblivious Lupin. The wind blows, a few spare golden orange leaves from a nearby tree drifting through the air around them._ _

__“I like Lupin.”_ _

__“That's your opinion.”_ _

__“You,” Regulus leans over, brushing a snagged leaf off the shoulder of Snape's shirt, “Need to relax.”_ _

__“I'm relaxed.” Snape slouches deeply to prove the point._ _

__“Clearly.”_ _

__They walk further, down a hill, Regulus’s trainers catching in the thick grass._ _

__“What are you up to now, anyway?” he asks Snape._ _

__Snape shrugs, shivering with the cold. The next gust of wind blows his hair out of his eyes and he squints._ _

__“Nothing much,” he admits, “Hence me escorting you out here. Saturdays are sort of a ‘nothing’ day for me.”_ _

__“I wish,” Regulus replies, the tip of his broom occasionally scratching the ground as he carries it low. In the closing distance is the Quidditch stadium, large and ornate against the horizon. They come to a fork in the road where one path leads to the stadium and the other loops back around past the forest, where the tree branches are swaying gently with the breeze._ _

__“I'll meet you in the library after practice.” He claps Snape on the shoulder with his free hand and chuckles at the way he older boy startles, like he's ready to have a fist fight right here and then, and turns off towards the stadium. Snape doesn't yell anything after him—he's not the sort, which is admittedly a welcome relief—and Regulus hears him clop off in the opposite direction. Regulus hoists his broom over his shoulder._ _

__His team are huddled outside the Southern entrance to the stadium, some seated cross-legged on the grass, some leaning against the wooden planks of the stands, some just stood around looking bored. A few donned Quidditch robes, but most are in various jumpers and athletic trousers, the sleeves pulled all the way down to keep warm. Regulus walks up and they all seem to notice him._ _

__“Merlin, about time you showed up,” Avery says, standing at once, “We've a right problem, yeah?”_ _

__He points a finger through the long, wide arch and Regulus bends down to get a proper view of the stadium within: flying around high are several distant, tiny figures on brooms, most of which are donning some degree of red and gold. He stands back up._ _

__“Fuck me,” he says, walking ahead. Behind him, the team scramble to follow._ _

__The stadium always feels spectacularly large when Regulus is in it, the stands sprawling upwards and the grass neat and extensive beneath his feet. High up in the air, the Gryffindor team are in two messy lines facing each other, all amidst various conversations, a few Quaffles being tossed around aimlessly. A trunk nearby on the ground is vibrating, Bludgers rearing to escape. James Potter, from where he's doing obnoxious broom tricks on the closest end of one row, notices Regulus first._ _

__Regulus only exchanges words with Potter on the Quidditch pitch, where the Gryffindor player seems to be having enough fun with it for the both of them. He’s about twenty feet up._ _

__“The match isn’t for another three weeks!” he shouts down, his voice reverberating off the empty stands, “I get you're excited for us to beat you, but patience makes perfect.”_ _

__Regulus stops walking and the rest of his players follow suit, standing in a pointed triangle behind him. Avery and their best chaser, Carrow, stand back on either side of him, a few feet away._ _

__Regulus declines to shout back, but he speaks loud enough to be heard._ _

__“We’ve booked the stadium for practice this morning. I’m not sure why they didn’t clear up last night’s trash.”_ _

__“Sorry, Lesser Black!” The Gryffindor captain, the oldest McKinnon girl, is highest in the air on her broom, calling down, “You should probably just turn around. We’ve got this handled.”_ _

__“Really now, you little witch?” Avery shouts back, holding his broom tightly at his side. “Why don’t you come down here so I can get a handle on you.”_ _

__Regulus crosses his arms and surveys the scene in front of him, ignoring Avery’s overeagerness. The Gryffindor team all mounted on their brooms in the air, clearly having been in the middle of a drill, though now most of them are floating towards McKinnon and gathering in a meandering blob behind and beside her. Potter stands out, as he always does, situated still ahead of her and peering down at Regulus with his hand horizontal over his eyes like he’s navigating the seven seas. Sirius is next to him, sitting side-saddle on his broom, but he looks like he’s ready to fly._ _

__Regulus hasn’t seen Sirius since him and Potter exploded the Gryffindor table in the dining hall at breakfast over a month ago. For once, this is just a fortunate accident; he hasn’t been thinking about avoiding Sirius at all, and he knows Sirius surely has better things to do than go out of his way to avoid him. It’s just been the universe doing them both a favour._ _

__He can tell even from the distance between them that he’s not looking too great these days. His hair is messy, still growing back, and he’s got a scowl on._ _

__Sirius swings his leg around and drops his broom straight down the ground, then zooms forward past Regulus to Avery. He skids to an uneven stop, dragging his trainers on the ground for friction. Up close, he looks even worse for wear—unmaintained stubble on his jaw, bruises on his knuckles, and his shoulders held so tense that Regulus wants to double check he’s not holding an invisible stone slab atop them. He tilts forward, the tip of his broom poking Avery in the stomach._ _

__“You reaching for a one-on-one, are you?” he says, half a smirk catching on his lips. He’s got his bat heavy in one hand, the top touching the ground. “You and me, Avery. Give me an excuse. Otherwise, sod off.”_ _

__“Don’t make me laugh,” Avery hits back, but he looks at Regulus. One of the other team members chuckles at Sirius’s bravado. Regulus looks at Sirius, his head only minutely quirked to the side. Avery goes on, “We booked the stadium. I’ll bat you out of it, if that’s what you want, but—”_ _

__“Don’t engage this, Simon,” Regulus interrupts, side-eyeing Avery. Sirius sits back a little and scoffs._ _

__Regulus straightens up in response, the movement provoking residual pain in his core from his extracurriculars. He exhales, tightening the cross of his arms. He eyes Sirius for a moment then, Sirius eyeing him just as intently back, and wonders if his brother can tell he’s in pain. He’s always had a certain eye for it._ _

__1967: Regulus was barely six years old when his mother used an Unforgivable Curse on him for the first time, her long fingers flicking her wand effortlessly as if she was whisking dust off a high shelf in the foyer. Regulus never once doubted that she loved him. He always understood that people have different ways of showing love—some are overbearing and protective, some are stern and authoritative, and some cast the Cruciatus Curse on you when you're speaking out of turn to instill in you that the world will never bend to your will._ _

__He’d never known that pain felt hot before. He’d actually always imagined it as rather cold, the icy touch of death or something like it, but it felt as if her wand was searing his skin. And he’d seen this happen to Sirius before—he misbehaved far more often, of course—and wondered if perhaps it just always looked worse than it felt. It didn’t._ _

__“Regulus Black,” she boomed, looking down at his crouched body from where she stood in front of the sofa, “Don’t you ever disrespect your father like that again!”_ _

__He wanted to say he was sorry, but the words wouldn’t come out. He shook his head instead, vision blurring quickly with the hot sting of tears._ _

__Sirius showed up in the hallway. Regulus so rarely remembers specific moments from when he was very young—much of his childhood was doing the same thing over and over, a pristine and organized routine with little standout memories—but he always remembers Sirius walking into the room, glancing between them, and raising his arm. He pulled it back and flung it to the side like he was smacking away a fly buzzing around his face, and the magic shot out of him as it often did in young, precocious wizarding children: forceful and violently._ _

__He knocked their mother straight back across the living room, where she hit the wall and clattered against the painting there. The painting fell down, rocking back and forth on the floor before settling to a dead stop. Regulus felt the pain leave his body, but he still couldn’t breathe until Sirius came up next to him and held his hands._ _

__“Have you killed her?” was all Regulus said, letting his brother pulling him up with both arms._ _

__Regulus could hardly stand, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. He looked at his mother as she opened her eyes and regained her wits, murmuring and rubbing her head, her dress tangled amidst her long legs. The house was quiet._ _

__“You well owe me one now,” Sirius whispered. He let Regulus’s arm go and ran for the stairs, taking them two at once, darting away out of sight down the hall._ _

__Regulus stood there, watching his mother rise and look around, and she somehow didn’t seem angry with him. He really never doubted that she loved him. She stumbled slowly over and placed a hand firmly on his shoulder, squeezing with the type of stilted affection she always did, then wandered, determinately, off towards the kitchen. Regulus was shaking all over. He’d never trembled in his life, before or since, but that evening it took him several hours of sitting on the sofa curled with a book to stop._ _

__As soon as Sirius went away to Hogwarts, as soon as he received his first custom-made wand, Regulus’s mother never used the Cruciatus Curse on Regulus again. Not when she was lecturing him, not when she was punishing him, not even when she was well and truly _disappointed_ in him. _ _

__Sirius was, of course, a different story._ _

__“Did you _hear_ me?” Sirius says, and it’s really the thump of his bat as he drums it on the ground in front of Regulus and his team that startles the younger Black back to reality. His jumper looks absolutely ridiculous, riding up his stomach, the sleeves only reaching midway down his forearm, tight all over. It can’t be very warm mid-October. _ _

__“I wasn’t listening,” Regulus says matter-of-factly. Sirius dismounts his broom and leaves it hovering there, taking long steps to bridge the rest of the gap, stopping in front of Regulus now. He leans over to the eye the rest of the team, including Avery, who’s breathing so loudly that Regulus can hear it from the half foot between them._ _

__“I said I hope Avery didn’t feel like using his legs anytime soon, cause if he wants to have a go, I’d just have to break them.”_ _

__Potter zooms down then, hovering just behind Sirius. McKinnon declines to participate; she’s still high in the air behind them, spearheading the cluster of younger boys and girls making up the rest of the team, exchanging amused whispers with two in the front. Potter flies slowly up to put a hand on Sirius’s shoulder that, Regulus can tell, annoys him._ _

__“Must be mad convenient having two witless bodyguards,” Avery calls up to McKinnon, waving his hand towards Potter and Sirius. McKinnon shrugs and crosses her own arms, eyeing her teammates with something like a small smirk._ _

__“It’s not so bad,” she calls back._ _

__“Hi, Regulus,” Potter says, ignoring them both. He hops off his broom and holds it in his hand. Avery seems to get riled up about that, walking a little closer and hitting Regulus in the leg with the swoosh of his robes. Potter goes on, “We’re not being difficult. McGonagall said we could have the pitch to practice—easy as that. I don’t think you’ll need to bother practicing, anyway. We’re pretty much a shoo-in, don’t you think?”_ _

__He grins widely with all his teeth, the corners of his eyes scrunching up. It’s the same way he smiled when he gave his Head Boy speech in the entrance hall at the beginning of the year, and it’s very close to the way he smiled when he came into Regulus’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class three years back to give a wisened, experienced student presentation on disarming Boggarts. He always seems like he’s having far, _far_ too much fun._ _

__“A shoo-in loss, you mean? You know your beaters smashing _people_ up isn't going to get you any points.”_ _

__Regulus fully understands that he gets a little ridiculous when it comes to Quidditch. It's one of those things he can sink himself into enough to forget everything else, like Astronomy and sleeping, and the mindless pitch banter comes with that package._ _

__“You want to be next in line, Regs?” Sirius says, though he's simmered down with Potter's presence. Regulus is really trying not to look at him. He never liked Sirius when he was angry; he'd always been volatile and moody when they were growing up, but when he got like _this_ , where he'd do anything to hurt someone, Regulus learned to stay far away._ _

__“The only one allowed to beat on your brother is me,” Avery says, gripping his broom. Regulus breaks his composure to turn to him and give him a _look_ —a _was that really a great comeback?_ look. He can almost hear Potter smiling at it._ _

__“I feel like I'm losing brain matter through my ears every time you fucking speak to me, Avery.” Sirius sidesteps, inches in front of Avery now, and taps the side of his head._ _

__“Get off our pitch.”_ _

__“Make me.”_ _

__“Okay, boys—” Potter interrupts, laughing, but Avery and Sirius surely aren't. Sirius grabs his broom and mounts it, triggering Avery to swing his around and mount it too. Potter finally stops laughing, trying to look to Regulus for assistance. Regulus has accidentally started watching Sirius._ _

__Sirius vaults a straight twenty feet into the air as soon as he's on his broom, startling Avery and Potter both._ _

__“Come on, then!” he shouts down, itching for a fight._ _

__1971: the Black family home always looked droll during the holidays, no decorations sans the occasional sprig of holly hanging from the ceilings of each long, spindly corridor. While 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place boasted elegant, twinkling Muggle Christmas lights hung around the outside windows, Regulus’ parents declined to display so much as a candle inside. Their Christmas tree was unlit and undecorated, set ominously at the far end of the downstairs sitting room, gifts and chocolates absent._ _

__Regulus usually received books or robes for Christmas, except from Sirius, who, when they were younger, always found a way to sneak him something interesting—an enchanted spinning top, a rare wizarding card, a grotesquely large chocolate frog, or even, very rarely, some smuggled Muggle artifact. The previous year, he'd gifted him a toy racing car that was just large enough to fit in the palm of his hand. It was a ruby red and had the most peculiar device in the back: a small knob that, when turned with his fingers and then released, would make a whirring noise and propel the car quickly across the floor. It would run out of energy moments later, the rotation of the knob slowing to a halt, the car gently pulling to a stop with a soft whine._ _

__He had it firmly and safe in his pocket most of the holiday break that year. He kept touching it throughout Christmas dinner to combat the silence at the long dining table, where Regulus’s father sat at the head, his mother next to him, Regulus next to her, and Sirius on the other side of the table._ _

__“Another lovely holiday to come,” their father said, very much in his version of good spirits, stoic and calm. Regulus murmured in agreement._ _

__“Never mind that I'd rather be anywhere else,” Sirius mumbled, stabbing his fork into his potatoes. He was barely twelve years old and his hair had grown considerably since he'd been away at Hogwarts for his first term. There was a moment of silence accented only by a disappointed grunt from their father._ _

__“Sirius,” was all he said. Sirius didn't say anything else for a moment._ _

__“You'd rather be—well, where, exactly?” Their mother countered, looking at him. “On the streets buried freezing in the snow? In an orphanage somewhere, begging for scraps under the table? You're very fortunate, Sirius. You will begin to act like it.”_ _

__“I can't wait to go back to school,” Sirius said, meeting her gaze. He took a large bite of his food and chewed with fascinating purpose. Regulus tried very hard not to look at him, keeping his face tilted down towards his plate, but he couldn't help but glance._ _

__“You will watch your attitude.”_ _

__“Watch yours,” Sirius snapped back, going in for another bite. Wordlessly, their mother waved her hand and his plate instead flew sideways off the table, clattering to the ground and splattering potatoes and slices of carved ham in a cone across the floor. Sirius dropped his fork to the table more out of indigence than shock, though Regulus had jumped slightly at the motion. He looked at their father, who sighed heavily in Sirius’s general direction._ _

__“I was eating—”_ _

__“ _Sirius Black!_ ”_ _

__Regulus shoved a large bite into his mouth, focusing intently on chewing as his mother slid her chair back and stood up next to him. Her wand was raised at Sirius. Regulus tired very, very hard not to look at his brother._ _

__Even Sirius fell uncharacteristically silent then, pushing his fork minutely across the table with his index finger. Regulus, only because he was so in tune to it, could feel the subtle shaking of his leg underneath the table._ _

__“Kreacher,” their father called, setting down his own silverware. The house elf appeared in the doorway, surveying Sirius's side of the table with very apparent disapproval. “Tend to Sirius's mess.”_ _

__“Carry on like this and we'll have to take you out of that dreadful school and ship you straight to Durmstrang,” their mother said, still speaking very loudly as Kreacher huffed at Sirius, “Not that they'd have you! So what, then, would you suggest I do with you?”_ _

__Sirius shrugged with minimal, stiff movement. He didn't say anything more. She stood facing him for a long time._ _

__“You are excused,” she finally said, putting away her wand and sitting ceremoniously back down. Sirius's other leg was shaking now, too, vibrating nervously, the toes of his foot tap-tap-tapping against the hardwood floor. He gripped the edge of the table and stood up, leaving without pushing his chair in, stepping around Kreacher. He took his fork with him to the kitchen._ _

__Their mother began eating again, hardly regarding the spot where he'd once sat. Regulus felt rather sick._ _

__“May I be excused as well?” he asked a moment after, aiming to make himself sound as small as he felt. Their father looked at him and nodded once, picking up his own fork to begin eating again. Regulus took his half-finished plate and hurried down to the kitchen._ _

__The brick walls looked cold in the basement kitchn here, and the candlelit chandelier cast only dim light around the room. Sirius was standing near a counter, poised with the fork gripped in his hand like a weapon. He nearly jumped when Regulus walked in._ _

__“What?” he said when he saw him, whispering against the silence. Regulus walked up beside him and gingerly placed his plate in the sink._ _

__“Nothing,” he said back in a normal voice, wishing there was a window to look out of. Sirius sniffed and leaned against the counter, taking up extra space with his elbows, pondering as he twirled the fork in his hand. He was trying not to look up the stairs._ _

__“Sirius—” Regulus started, unsure what he was even going to say._ _

__“We can't sit there and take this,” Sirius interrupted, waving one hand towards the stairwell. His eyes looked like they were on fire. He tossed the fork loudly into the sink, much to the annoyance of the nearby Kreacher, who'd just apparated in._ _

__“It's not so bad,” Regulus said, curling his fingers around the edges of his jumper sleeves pulled down past his wrists, crossing his arms in the cold, “She's got a point. You could be out in the cold somewhere with no parents, no food, no… whatever. It's not so bad.”_ _

__Sirius stepped up and grabbed Regulus by the wrist, pushing his sleeve up to his elbow to reveal his forearm, pale and bare. Then he held out his own arm next to it, his sleeve already rolled up; his skin had narrow, weaving scars that spread like discoloured veins. Regulus knew they were from last holidays, where they'd both snuck out into London on Christmas Eve and gotten easily caught—only Sirius, as was often the case, had gotten in real trouble. Regulus was still learning how to swallow the guilt down like a particularly large piece of gum._ _

__“That's not so bad?” Sirius said, whispering fiercely, “Maybe for you.”_ _

__“If you behaved—”_ _

__“You're unbelievable.” He dropped his arm, the cold air of the house swarming to infect the warm circles on Regulus's wrist where his fingers once were. “Won't you think for yourself?”_ _

__He turned, thumping up the stairs, and Regulus remembers feeling so suddenly alone. The tall room began getting taller and taller around him, ready to digest him fully into the haunted, old house. Kreacher glanced at him but said nothing, exiting out the opposite door. Regulus ran after Sirius, up and down the entry hall._ _

__“I'm sorry, Sirius, please don't be angry—”_ _

__Sirius paused at the base of the stairs to the second floor and turned around towards him. He seemed to change his mind at the sight of Regulus. “Shut up, okay? I'm not angry,” he said in a low voice._ _

__Regulus jogged up until he was standing right in front of him, nearly a full head shorter, their jumpers contrasting in colour—his dark grey against Sirius’s brilliant gold. The setting winter sunlight shone in only three narrow slits through the high front window, the rest of the room shrouded in evening darkness._ _

__“It's boring here when you're away at school,” Regulus said, looking off. Sirius shrugged._ _

__“Quit whinging. You'll go away next year.” He swatted harmlessly at the side of Regulus’s head and smirked, “Maybe they'll give you a brain there.”_ _

__Regulus caught him by the wrist at the next swipe, pushing his arm away. He smiled back, and—_ _

__“Come on, Sirius!” Potter shouts._ _

__Regulus blinks and looks in the air above him, where Sirius and Avery are now both on their brooms, flying towards each other with their beater bats brandished._ _

__Regulus takes out his wand and shouts a sharp _Petrificus Totalis_!, gesticulating in Avery’s direction. Just as Sirius levels his bat and swoops in to take a swing, Avery’s arms and legs snap together and he pummels down through the air, the feet to the ground whizzing past him as he clunks down, his broom sliding out from between his legs. He lays there, a frozen block, his eyes fierce in Regulus’s direction. Sirius swings at empty air._ _

__“That’s enough,” Regulus says. He locks eyes with Potter, and for once they seem to agree on something; the older boy gets back on his broom, wrinkling his nose behind his glasses. Sirius catches himself before he loses control of his own broom, halting to a stop and looking around._ _

__“Well—“ Potter starts._ _

__“I didn’t know you had a team of unchecked rabid first-years on your hands,” Regulus interrupts, looking sorely unimpressed._ _

__“Really, now?” Potter counters, holding a flat hand out in Avery’s direction. Regulus humours him by looking over once more at his paralyzed friend he so frequently wishes would just miraculously stop showing up to school one term. He looks past him, at the stretch of stadium, and notices Snape standing in one of the exit archways underneath the stands, obscured by shadow. He finally looks up at the Gryffindors._ _

__“You can have the stadium, McKinnon,” he calls, then nods at Potter, “You were right. We don’t need to practice—clearly the competition is minimal. Nonexistent, even. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”_ _

__Before he can give Potter or anyone a chance to talk back, Regulus turns and walks back towards his team, taking the middle path through them._ _

__“Please get him up, Carrow,” he mumbles, waving her over. Her and two others snicker and commentate to each other as they hurry over and gingerly lift up Avery, one of them getting out their wand to perform a Counter-Curse. “We’ll reconvene at the training pitch tomorrow morning, unless anyone has a problem with that?”_ _

__Regulus gets to the back of the triangle, turns around, and eyes his team. Everyone shrugs, shakes their head, or stands there kicking at the ground. He nods once and walks off before Avery can warm up enough to have a go at him._ _

__Behind him he heard Potter say something he must think is terribly clever, and then there’s the noise of brooms slicing through air as him and Sirius swoop up to join their team again. A small din of conversation erupts from the Slytherin team as they gather up Avery and start migrating towards the large, eastern archway. The sun is still low in the morning sky, shining through the stands, only slightly blinding. Regulus walks quickly, several feet ahead of the team, and raises a hand to Snape._ _

__“What are you doing here?” he asks, amused. Snape has his hands in the pockets of the large sweatshirt he’s now wearing over his shirt and tie, an extra layer from earlier. He shrugs._ _

__“Forgot to ask what time your practice was finished, although—“ he leans sideways, watching the Slytherins meander across the pitch as the Gryffindors begin to fly in warm-up circles in the sky, “—is it normally so brief? Quidditch seems even less enticing than I thought.”_ _

__“Only when Potter shows up,” Regulus replies, glancing towards the adjacent southern arch, “Seems my exhaustive schedule’s been freed up.”_ _

__He gestures towards the southern exit, a quicker walk back to the castle that doesn’t involve winding around the stadium with, more than likely, Avery trying to shout at him from ten feet back. Snape follows him and they walk along the side of the pitch, minding the gap between the green grass and the harsh wood of the stands._ _

__“So you really had nothing better to do than come here and wait on me?” Regulus teases, shoving his own hands in the pockets of his jeans. Snape pulls a face._ _

__“Just trying to figure out how much time I needed to commit to you.”_ _

__“I’ll have you all day, I suppose. _De luxe paquet_.”_ _

__McKinnon is barking orders to the team in the air, her voice loud as ever, but Regulus aptly filters whatever she’s saying out. Snape makes a noise somewhere between amused and annoyed._ _

__“Please do not ever say that again.” Snape rolls his eyes. “I’m no rent boy.”_ _

__“Aw, don’t flatter yourself.”_ _

__Regulus thinks he catches Snape smirking—a rare, strange sight. He laughs. Something large then thumps against the side of Regulus’s head as they walk the last stretch of the stadium, falling to the grass behind him. He spins around and sees a Quaffle, damp with dew and a few stray blades of grass, at his feet._ _

__“Sorry!’ he hears Potter shout, a loud _whoosh_ following as he flies over at top speed and careens to a perfect halt just inches from Regulus’s face. He swings his body off the side of the broom and plucks up the ball from the grass, tucking it under his arm as he rights himself once more. He notices Snape and tilts his head. _ _

__“What’s this? Trying out for the team, are you?” He’s smirking again. His eyes are large and playful behind his ridiculous, thick, glimmering glasses, his fingers of his free hand drumming on the wood of his broom._ _

__Snape scowls with his whole body, pulling a leg back into a cartoonish fighting pose, his hands balled into fists._ _

__“That doesn’t even make any sense. Tryouts were weeks ago and I hate Quidditch, you insufferable goblin.”_ _

__Potter raises both eyebrows and glances at Regulus, then back at Snape, then back at the pitch, then back at Regulus again._ _

__“Have it your way. You don’t have the figure for it, you know. Happy Saturday!” he signs off with another big, grating grin. He flips up his broom and turns upside-down, flying back off towards the goalposts into a showy corkscrew, morning sun catching the shimmer of his golden coat. He lobs the ball into the left ring from half the field away, launching it right through the middle. Snape puts a hand up above his eyes to shield from the light._ _

__“If it makes you feel better, his form’s all wrong,” Regulus lies, stifling jealousy at how effortlessly Potter flies. Snape relaxes and scoffs, the two of them finally exiting the stadium._ _

__Regulus glances back once more just in time to see Sirius pull back his bat and smash a now-released Bludger with full force, sending it sweeping in Potter’s direction as the Chaser tries to weave towards the goal posts. He dodges out of the way, flipping upside-down on his broom, but nearly flips right off it. He teeters in the air. It’s one of the few times Regulus has seen him caught so off-guard—he’s usually painting figure eights around Avery during matches, like he could fly in his sleep._ _

__Sirius hovers up there with his bat lowered, his hair in his eyes. He slumps a little on his broom and flies away, separated from the rest of the team, as McKinnon zooms over to help Potter up. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything, in his own world inside his head._ _

__Regulus turns around, keeping his eyes on the grounds sprawling in front of him, trying to listen to whatever Snape is saying._ _

__1976: Sirius got into an argument with their mother early Christmas Day that ended with a broken window and all eleven inches of Sirius's long, dark hair being hexed off onto the foyer floor. Regulus didn't listen to what it was about and he never asked either of them either, but it wasn't important: it could've been about anything at all._ _

__And Regulus really thought it was routine, that all would be tense and awful for the rest of the break—as things were before—and then Sirius would go back to school and be Sirius again. Sirius with a haircut and a slightly chipped ego, but Sirius nonetheless. Then he woke up freezing cold, heavy snow hammering against his window, and the sound of Sirius in the next room scraping something large and heavy against the wall. He slid on his robe and dragged himself out into the hallway, dark and empty. He could hear the wind howling outside. Sirius's door was cracked, so he pushed it open with one palm and found him packing all his things. He felt, for no reason at all, compelled to convince him not to._ _

__He argued with him the whole time he packed, their voices low not to wake anyone._ _

__“They'll take all your money. They'll take _all_ your money, all your things, all your inheritance. They'll disown you. They'll burn your name off the tree, they'll—”_ _

__“Shut up!” Sirius whispered, air hissing through his teeth, as he closed the last latch on his trunk. He was shaking all over—not just his legs, but his hands too. Each finger trembling somewhere between the cold and the nerves. “You want to be my best friend, Regs? You really care about me? You've had our whole fucking lives to be my friend. So you don't get to do it now. You don't get to make the wrong choice a thousand times and then think it's okay because you're trying to do the right thing once.”_ _

__“You spent your whole life pushing me as far away as you could get me. Don't pretend you tried anything different. You’d have nothing to do with me from the day I got sorted into Slytherin house—”_ _

__“I pushed— you realize you're the worst person I've ever known, don't you? You and your stuck-up friends walking around school like you're so much better than everyone else ‘cause you hex muggle-borns in the hallways.” He slung a backpack over one shoulder and picked up the trunk with the other arm, teetering slightly with the weight of it. He headed for the door, still talking. “Parroting mum and dad like some kind of trained monkey, pretending that you're some kind of enlightened _god_ when you're really just a prick. An absolute prick. A top-notch, A-level tosser.”_ _

__“I don't exactly love you either,” Regulus said at full volume, blocking the doorway as Sirius dragged himself towards it. He lowered his voice back to a whisper once they were closer, the house creaking behind his words. “But you're my brother. We're brothers. You don't have to like it, but it's the truth, so I won't let you make an ill-conceived mistake that's going to ruin your life.”_ _

__“Let me go. You'll even get to say ‘I told you so’.”_ _

__“I'm not letting you ruin your life!”_ _

__“How much worse can it get?”_ _

__Regulus faltered, watching Sirius as the older boy re-shouldered his backpack and held his breath. He looked simply bizarre with his hair so short. All their lives, Regulus had made a habit of watching it grow longer and longer; tucking it behind the ears turned to high ponytails turned to chunky, long braids. Now it was shorter than even Regulus’s, unevenly chopped around the sides and a monumental mess on the top. Sirius's eyes were red. He'd been drinking or crying or both. He looked the same way he looked every time that X happened and Regulus never, ever did Y to stop it._ _

__Regulus let his guard down just enough—loosened his shoulders, weakened his stance—for Sirius to push him out of the way, hitting him against the knees with the trunk on his way out. Regulus stood looking into the bedroom, Muggle band posters and Gryffindor banners charmed to the walls, listening to the sound of him clunking down the hallway and flights of stairs. This room was the only room in the house without high, vaulted ceilings; it was stout and constrictive, a large cube with no window. Regulus’s room had a large, floor-length window right near the bed, one of only two in the house._ _

__He spun at once, like he'd just startled awake from a bad dream, and ran out and down the stairs. He undid all four locks on the front door and struggled to pull it open against the wind, sticking his head out into the snow and squinting to see. Sirius was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his wand out, facing the street. He flicked his wrist and apparated into thin air._ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late-October, the next full moon is soon. Sirius and Peter study in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one sure took me forever!! Thanks, @ life!! I'm sorry omg.

**October 25, 1977. Tuesday.**

For what feels like the first time this autumn, the sun is shining brilliantly in a cloudless sky as Sirius basks in the window light of the Hogwarts Library. He's sitting on the ledge of the sill, the stone warm beneath him from the light, his knees up and his head back against the space between the window pane and the closest bookshelf. Peter is sitting on the opposite side of the ledge from him, hunched around a book, brow furrowed. 

“Are you going to study?“ he asks, not looking up. Sirius rolls his head over, facing Peter.

“I'm giving you moral support.“ He pats his own book, unopened by his feet. Still Charms. 

Everyone's beginning to worry about the term exams in December, but Sirius is very good at selectively ignoring stressful things. For example, all he's done the last two weeks is spend hours on the Quidditch pitch batting Bludgers in ten directions to hammer out any and all stress. It's worked wonders.

“I'd feel better if you studied too.“

“That doesn't make any sense, Pete.“ 

Peter shrugs and wrinkles his nose, flipping the page. Sirius exhales and leans his head against the glass once more. He looks out over the library this time, more crowded than usual this afternoon, mostly younger students being ambitious about their studying. All the tables are full, crammed between the shelves with bags and books piled high, the din of conversation loud. He eyes a group of young Slytherins, all wearing pins with the unmistakable logo of the Death Eaters even if they all know it's well against the rules to wear. He frowns.

“You know, it does make sense,” Peter speaks up after a minute, “We'd be in it together. You wouldn't just be _giving up_ on getting high marks! You can't fail in first term, Sirius. I need you for NEWTs. Remus is already too smart and James sort of just makes me tired.“

“Relax. You're just a mess about everything, aren't you?“

“No.“ Peter raises a finger at him in defense, sighing as he eases the book closed. “I can't read any more. My brain might melt.“

“What brain?“ 

Peter narrows his eyes and moves the book from his lap, yawning. Sirius must be contagious. 

They hold eye contact for a moment until Sirius shrugs. Peter takes one of the book pages in his hand, moving it slowly back and forth as if it's swaying in some ocean breeze. 

Sirius surveys the library again. They're in the front section, near the door and the desk, though the librarian has been elsewhere for a while. The doors are wide open out into the castle, the hall about as filled as the room itself. Hogwarts always feels rather alive late in the autumn, students buzzing for the holidays and knee-deep in the term's work. 

Sirius eyes the table of Slytherins. There's seven of them, all paired off in various groups, some actively studying and others looking as distracted as Sirius. Two—a boy and a girl—are poring over today's edition of the Daily Prophet, their voices so loud it seems intentional. Sirius doesn't recognize them as anyone he's had the displeasure of speaking to; next to them, Barty Crouch Jr. is silently leering over to get a look and listen in.

“Did you see this?“ the boy says, clearing his throat to read from the paper, “ _Muggle-born council estate attacked by followers of ‘Dark Lord’ yesterday, the most recent in the string of violent outbursts from the radical reformists._ “

The girl leans over and takes the paper from him, scanning over it with her finger. “ _Minister of Magic Minchum orders forty-four more dementors to be placed at Azkaban_. What's that going to do?“

“Nothing,“ the boy says back, shrugging, “It's not wild criminals they’re after, is it? It's activists on the street. Is this supposed to scare them?“ 

“What are you reading about?“ Crouch says in a nasally voice, like he has a head cold.

“Personal space, Crouch,“ the boy mutters, putting a hand up in Crouch's face. Crouch curses under his breath and returns to his notebook.

Sirius frowns. He tries to see the newspaper on their table from where he's sat, but it's far away and partially obscured by some school books. All he can make out is the moving picture of some Aurors from the Ministry looking quite grim, and half of the word '’KILLED“ in the large headline.

“Did you do the Charms homework?“ Peter says then, “We could compare answers.“

Sirius is drawn from his thoughts. He scoffs. “Not yet. I'll do it in the morning before class.“

“Do you know if Remus did the Charms homework?“

“I'm giving him distance,“ Sirius says in a monotone voice, looking right at Peter. Peter's cheeks are faintly red as he bites his lip.

“Sorry. I keep forgetting.“

“How could you possibly keep forgetting?“ Sirius says. Peter frowns.

“I get you're having a bad day, but you don't have to be rude to me.“

“Sorry,“ Sirius says shortly, blowing sideways out of his mouth. He feels Peter's gaze on him for a moment longer. Peter doesn't look at him the way James does, with unsolicited pity, and he doesn't even look at him the way the other 998 students in the school do, with unbridled annoyance. He's far too accommodating. He's always just smiling politely at him, taking whatever Sirius dishes out. Sirius feels… a little bad.

“Sorry,“ he says again, softer. Peter nods, following Sirius's gaze to the table in the middle of the room, his blonde hair falling over his ears. He must be able to hear them too, even through his studying, but he doesn't comment on it. Sirius must look like he's going to stand up and march over there because Peter reaches a hand out to his knee as if to hold him in place.

“It’s okay,“ Peter says, smiling. Sirius looks at him. Peter's far, far too accommodating. Sirius gives him a quick smirk back and shrugs.

“I'm well bored,“ he moves on. 

“Yeah,“ Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck as he pulls his hand back and stretches both arms above his head. Sirius wrinkles his nose as if he’s smelling something awful, and he stands up with a low pop of both his knees. He watches Peter wince. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Well, let’s do something fun,” Sirius says, gesturing his head towards the group of third years with the newspaper. “You want to practice your water-making charms?“

Peter smiles weakly, glancing side to side like they're already on the verge of getting caught. Sirius leans down and puts one hand on either side of Peter's face, smushing his cheeks together.

“Look at me,“ he says, “I'm going to die of boredom. Please.“

Peter starts laughing. Sirius grins. 

“Okay, okay,“ Peter replies, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I don't know if I can manage it, though.“

Sirius lets go and pulls his wand from his pocket, twirling it between two fingers. “Can't hurt to try.“

Peter has his wand out—short and chestnut brown—then, trying to be far more discrete about it, follows Sirius to stand between two rows of shelves with a perfect, shaded view of the tables. 

“Ready? One, two, three…”

In unison, they both whisper _Aguamenti!_ with appropriate gusto, pointing their wands towards the table in the middle of the room as they gesture. There’s a moment of silence, the two of them looking at each other expectantly, and then the sound of water shooting from their wands directly towards the tables. All seven of the students there jump and shout, the Daily Prophet soaking wet instantly. Sirius starts laughing.

It goes south quickly.

Somewhere between Sirius's very adept Charms work and Peter's insecurities fighting hard to combat themselves, the water that erupts from their wands becomes less a steady stream and more a violent, explosive jet. It thunders outward and knocks both of them back against the window ledge, Peter falling down and Sirius stumbling and catching himself against the closest bookshelf. The water starts sloshing in gallons onto the floor, filing all the space under and between the shelves, chairs, and tables, soaking any students and their belongings still seated.

The din of conversation erupts into the sound of panic, younger students shrieking against the shock and older students exclaiming as they try to gather their things. The group of Slytherins, at the center of the whole mess, are drenched from head to toe, cursing and looking around for the culprit. Sirius ducks behind the bookshelf once he stands, pocketing his wand and stopping the jet of water.

“Students, settle down!“ booms the voice of McGonagall somewhere by the door; it's hard for Sirius to get a good look across the room through the clamoring students and the small sea of water still churning from impact. He's soaked to his knees himself. 

He looks to his side for Peter, but the space next to him is empty. 

“Oh, are you—“ he mumbles, scanning the nearby shelves. He then spots a small, grey rat climbing up from one shelf to the next, keen on getting to the door undetected.

“Peter! Don't be a prick!“ Sirius shouts, picking up a book—sopping wet and falling apart at the binding—off the closest table and chucking it at the shelf. Peter squeaks but avoids the projectile, scurrying out of sight. Sirius can just hear him apologizing in that mousy voice of his. 

Sirius swings around to reach behind him for another book; his outstretched arm instead makes impact with McGonagall's large, crooked hat. It flops off her head with the hit, landing directly in the water. She doesn't flinch. She's looking at him— _looking_ at him.

Sirius draws his arm back to his side slowly, flashing a grin.

“That's funny, that I just happened to be coming in here while this all happened—“ he starts, interrupting himself to bend over and pick up Professor McGonagall's hat. It's soaked, the dark purple pure black from the water, hanging limp over his hand. He makes a show of tenderly wringing water out. “By the way, did you do something with your hair? You're looking very nice today, Professor.“

He holds the hat out with both hands after he's squeezed it long enough. McGonagall takes it with one hand, her other taking out her wand as she begins to wordlessly cast Drought Charms around the room. By now, the librarian and Professor Slughorn have showed up to assist; Slughorn is trying to coral all the remaining students to one side of the room. 

“Be seeing you then,“ Sirius says, bowing deeply. He tries to sidestep away. The look on her face, eyes still on him, says otherwise. 

“Black, why is it always you?“

***

**October 27, 1977. Thursday.**

The full moon is large and bright in the sky. Sirius taps his foot nervously against the floor as he sits in a desk in Classroom II. McGonagall is sitting at the teacher’s desk on the far side of the room, engrossed in her own work. He glances down at the parchment set in front of him, then slowly begins to stand.

“I assume you’re finished with your lines if you’re getting up,” she says. 

Sirius frowns and lowers himself back down. 

It’s nearly half past ten. Remus is certainly close to transforming by now; he must be tired and lonely and _cold_. Since Sirius has been trying very hard to keep distance out of courtesy, this is the only night all month he’d be able to see him. And he’s here. Peter and James are out there, but he’s, of course… here. He picks up the quill with a sigh.

“Well, that’s not really fair,“ Sirius mumbles, ink dripping off his quill in small blots that blossom outwards across the parchment as they fall. He lets one, two, three, four fall before he holds the quill to the paper and begins to rewrite his detention lines, the ink smearing from all the excess. McGonagall regards him with a stifled sigh.

“Life isn’t really fair, Black.“

“Yeah, tell me about it.“ Sirius waves his quill flippantly in the air, flicking ink over the next desk. McGonagall looks up at him then, her glasses perched so far down her nose he thinks they might fall off.

“Things being difficult— _unfair_ —isn’t a proper excuse for being insolent. I should think you might know better by now.“

“What is a proper excuse for being insolent, Professor?“ Sirius smirks, “So we know what to say next time.“

She shakes her head and returns to her own parchment, ignoring him.

“I really meant that your hair looked nice. I should knock your hats off more often. Shall I?“

“Black—“

She doesn't get to finish her sentence as the door of the classroom creaks open and Lily Evans runs—doesn't walk—inside. She doesn’t seem to notice there’s people in here until several steps in. 

“Oh, Sirius!“ Lily jerks upright, rubbing the skin beneath her eyes rapidly like he’s going to be looking. She twists her hands together and sniffs loudly through her nose. Her cheeks are a bright red; the corners of her eyes, too. Sirius raises a brow.

“Miss Evans,“ McGonagall says. She sounds surprised, but softer—far softer than she's been with Sirius all night. Lily seems even more upset there’s _two_ people here; she clears her throat and doesn't step forward.

“I'm—I’m sorry, I thought this room was empty. I'm sorry.“

“Alright, Evans?“ Sirius says from his chair, leaning back. She doesn't look at him, just at her shoes.

“I was just on rounds and needed to—sorry, Professor.“

“That's alright,“ McGonagall assures her. She's still putting on the soft voice. It sounds weird coming off her, but it relaxes Lily's shoulders a little as she inhales and nods.

“I should get back. Thank you.“ She lowers her head respectfully and leaves, only stealing a quick glance at Sirius before hurrying away. The large wooden door drags shut behind her.

“You think she’s okay?“ Sirius asks, hiking a thumb towards the door. McGonagall doesn’t respond to him, her head down towards her desk again, focused once more. 

He coughs at top volume. “Is Evans okay? I should go talk to her, right? Surely I should go talk to her.“

He pushes out his chair and begins to stand, eyeing his professor. She doesn’t look up at him, but speaks.

“You will not.“ 

“I’ll be right back. I think it’s doing a better service than this, really—what are the students of Hogwarts going to get out of these lines, you know? In this trying time, they’ll need emotional support—“

She looks up then, her eyes hooded, her expression the exact kind of _look_ that makes Sirius wrinkle his nose and slide back into his chair a second time, dragging it towards the desk with no enthusiasm. She shuffles some papers. She seems even more perturbed than usual.

Sirius leans forward on the desk, his elbows up, and picks up his quill again. He twirls it around in his hand like it’s his wand.

“You’re an _elder_ ,“ Sirius says, the corners of his mouth turning up at the way she tuts in response to such an accusation, “So, tell me. Will I have to go out and start cursing Death Eaters myself, or do you think the Ministry will do their job and stop it?“

“You’re not going to do anything but finish writing your lines.“

“Well, after that.“

“You’ll go to class tomorrow morning.“

“ _Well, after that._ “

McGonagall doesn’t say anything else. Sirius huffs and leans back, eyeing the night sky outside. The full moon is pale over the grounds, illuminating the vacant lawn below as it stretches between the West and Ravenclaw towers. He drags his quill lazily across the page, writing his lines with the coordination of a blind owl. 

_I will not summon water into the library._  
I will not summon water into the library.  
I will absolutely not let Pete get away before we’re caught next time. I mean, his handwriting is way better than mine and I bet you’d like him to write these instead.  
I probably will not summon water into the library.  
I might, if I’m feeling like it, not summon water into the library. No promises. 

He carries on in similar fashion, making it halfway down the first page before he loses focus once more. He thinks about Remus. He wishes they had the sort of bond where he could just _feel_ him and know if he's doing alright, but there's nothing spiritual about them right now—he just has to sit here and worry.

Trying to shove away his thoughts, he stands up. McGonagall doesn't seem to notice this time, or doesn't care anymore, as he paces slowly around the room, running his fingers absently along desks. He drifts over to the window, the pane cold from the outside, and peers at the close-up view of the lawn. He can't stay still, stretching his fingers under his sleeves.

He walks to McGonagall's desk, standing there for a moment before clearing his throat. She looks up.

“Can I leave?“ he asks.

She looks at him, standing there with both hands in his baggy pockets, hair parted off to one side and covering his left ear, the toes of one boot absently tapping against the side of the other. She looks annoyed—naturally. Then she sighs and adjusts her hat with one hand, something like pity flashing across her gaze. Sirius frowns and averts his eyes, picking a spot on the closed wooden door to focus on.

“Where do you have to be at this hour that’s so important?“ she asks matter-of-factly, parchment rustling as she moves things around her desk. Sirius feels like she probably knows exactly where he has to be—if anyone knows in this school full of clueless, vacuous gits, it’s her.

He shrugs. “Around.“

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, so he sneaks a glance back at her to find her with her glasses down her nose once more, writing neat notes on a student assignment. He stands straight, taking his hands from his pocket, and clears his throat.

“You may be excused after you finish the page you’re on,“ she compromises, “More for my sake than yours. I do have work to do, you know.“

“Really?“

She stops responding once again, but Sirius takes the silence as confirmation. He slides back into his desk and picks up his quill, His handwriting is messy, slanting down the page as the lines go on, but Sirius's script is always striking even at its worst; narrow and loopy, always italicized, the sort of writing you'd find on official Ministry parchments or course book lists. He absolutely can't stand it, but it's proven difficult to change. 

He writes several more various variations of the phrase _summoning water? bad idea_ before he reaches the bottom of the parchment, him and McGonagall in shared silence, working independently. When he's finished, he scoots the chair out loudly and brings it to her desk, unevenly rolled up.

“All finished. It's a riveting read,“ he promises. 

She looks up at him and takes it, gesturing for him to leave. 

“I would ask you if you learned your lesson, but I think we both know the answer to that,“ she says. If she was anyone else, she'd probably be smirking, but as it is her eyes just glint like a cat in the dark. Sirius shrugs and twirls his quill before placing it back in his bag. He takes double length steps to the door, the night hopefully still early enough for him to meet up with the others if they're hanging around the Shack.

“Black,“ McGonagall calls, and he pauses with his hand on the door. She's not looking at him, already back to her papers.

“Yes, favourite professor?“

“Don't worry so much about things you can't control.“

Sirius stands there expectantly, waiting for her to say more, but she doesn't. He salutes—she can't possibly see, her eyes downward, but he likes to think the sentiment travels through the air—and swings around the doorframe and finds himself out in the hallway. It's even colder out here, the lanterns only lighting up when they sense his presence. He hurries past them, around the corner, and down the stairs into the courtyard.

He walks, then he walks faster, then he breaks outright into a run as he makes his way towards the Whomping Willow. He can't ignore the moon now. Even if it’s enough late that his friends are already romping about, Sirius is sure he'll be able to find them; Prongs leaves the most obnoxious trail of destruction behind him, footprints and snapped branches on all paths. He eyes the edge of the grounds, ready to transform before he even gets to the tree.

At the edge of the courtyard, several tens of feet from him, Evans is sitting alone on a bench with her head in her heads. He pauses.

Usually when Sirius sees Lily, she's with her friends talking very animatedly, in class raising her hand to thoroughly answer a question, or with James smiling and poking fun. Sometimes when he sees her, she's alone like this on Prefect rounds, but always carrying herself tall and chatting to anyone she passes by. He's never really seen her… like this.

He eyes her for a moment, watching her shoulders move. He glances towards the tree across the grounds, then back at her, then back across the grounds, then back at her.

She's probably crying.

Fucking hell.

He tries to channel James, willing his pupils to dilate and his hands to get magically fifteen degrees warmer as he makes his approach. He’s not really sure how people like James get up in the morning and spend the whole day effortlessly being like _that_. Sirius generally falters at holding basic pleasant conversations, and his hands are always, always freezing cold.

“Rounds much exciting tonight? I see you’re well on the prowl.“

Lily startles at the noise, but she doesn’t seem particularly surprised that it’s Sirius that’s interrupted her. They’re rarely surprised by each other anymore, resigned to the constant presence of the other one way or another. She doesn’t make an effort to stand, dragging the toe of her shoe across the pavement. She must be cold in just a skirt and stockings, the winter temperatures settling in swiftly this week.

“I’m just taking a break,“ she assures him, tucking stray hairs behind one ear, “I don’t want to know what you’re doing, but I’m way too tired to take points from you, so just hurry off before I’m obligated to.“

Exactly contrary, Sirius sits down on the stone bench next to her. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and twists his hands together. She rubs inconspicuously at her eyes, wiping away the few stray tears. He glances nervously at the sky. 

“I got out of detention early, I swear.“

“Shockingly I believe you. I can’t imagine McGonagall as the sort to let you get away.“

“What, is that a challenge?“

She looks over at him, her expression unchanged—neutral, half-amused and half-unimpressed. Of course she looks tired again, like she always does when she’s walking in circles around the castle in the middle of the night. He wonders why she and James don’t give brand new fifth year Prefects the graveyard shifts, but then he remembers this is the same girl who baked Muggle brownies for the train last year despite a fully stocked trolley and always has a queue of underclassmen getting free homework help in the library. She really doesn’t know when enough is enough. 

“Please.“ She waves her hand, rolling her eyes. He smiles at her. She looks vaguely surprised, but forces one back— _forces_ being the real operative word. She really looks like it’s the hardest thing she’s ever had to do. Sirius would be rightfully offended, but the way she hangs her head afterwards and stares at the ground with a sleepy sigh makes him feel too badly about the whole situation.

“Evans, obviously I’m not always very nice to you,“ he says after a moment, turning his palms up in admission. She raises her head and blinks at him. He shuffles his hands back together, squinting off into the lawn. “But clearly you’re upset. So, I am thoroughly here for you right now.“

“Oh, Sirius—“ she starts, sounding close to mortified, but then she pauses. She laughs at him. He raises a brow. Her cheeks are a little red.

“I just mean I’m going to sit here with you. Don’t get too excited.“

“Oh, wow, no, I just mean you really don’t have to be like that.“ She finishes laughing, a more genuine smile sat on her lips for a moment, and shakes her head. “I’m fine. I’m just a normal amount of exhausted. Thanks for noticing.“

“It’s real hard not to notice.“ 

Sirius adjusts his position, sitting on his hands to warm them. Lily shrugs.

“The holidays are always this big event in my family at home. They start writing me in November to prepare for them—on top of exams and Prefect duties and Head Girl duties, it’s been a lot. They’re just very clingy right now.’’

“Because psychopaths are murdering Muggle-born families in the streets, or just because they’re that attached?“

“Yeah,“ she says, looking at him like he’s said something inappropriate. He then realizes that he’s said something inappropriate. He knocks heel after heel gently against the stone of the bench. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’ll be fine, is what I _meant_ to say.“

“Yeah,“ she says again, but she smiles at him this time, somehow unoffended. He feels her move a little closer to him now; the warmth radiating from her isn’t unlike the sort that radiates from James, where Sirius sometimes gets toasty just from standing next to him. He ponders on what to say, the both of them watching the moon as it disappears behind a thick cloud and darkens the lawn. He hopes Remus is feeling okay. 

“Everyone’s got your back,“ he settles on, looking sideways at her. She’s still looking at the sky, distracted.

“Mostly,“ she wrinkles her nose, “Not _everyone_ thinks attacks like that are a bad thing, but that’s… There’s nothing we can really do about that.“

“Oh, leave that to me. There’s things I’ll do,“ he promises. She chuckles.

“Really now?“ 

“Had it my way, people like Avery and Rosier and my brother would be expelled for fucking breathing. Sent to Azkaban until they get an attitude adjustment. Or forever. Forever sounds best, actually—less clean-up for us.“

“You’d send your brother to Azkaban?“ she asks, trying not to look at him. Sirius presses his palms, still under his legs, into the chilly stone of the bench.

“If he ends up the sort that goes around killing for posterity, I’ll probably execute him myself.“

He watches her think, her eyes still somewhere else. She then turns to him and tilts her head to the side.

“Simon Avery and some of his friends were bothering me earlier. Regulus asked them to stop.“

Sirius tries to get a read on what she means. She’s not giving him much to work with, the look on her face not unlike the one McGonagall was giving him in her office an hour ago. “Okay,’’ he says shortly.

He has to look away, trying to find something in the distance to distract himself. He misses Remus. Remus wouldn’t mention something like Regulus—he knows better. He’d just frown at Sirius incessantly, clear disapproval, but he wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t make him talk.

“You're right. Mostly everyone’s being supportive. Even you, yeah? So thank you.“ She follows his gaze to a tree far off across the lawn, totally still with the lack of breeze tonight. “You don’t have to go through things alone, you know? It really helps if you don’t. I’m not just saying that.“

“Oh, this is not about me,“ Sirius says, turning quickly to look at her. She meets his gaze with nothing more extreme than mild concern on her face. “I was asking if _you_ were okay. I was being, I’ll note, considerate.“

“James is really worried about you. He wouldn’t ever tell you, but he’s really—“

“Ah,“ Sirius says, standing up at once. His hands are cold when met with the night air, so he shoves them in his pockets and just stands there, slightly crooked, looking like the exact type of teenager he’s seen countless times in Muggle magazines. His hair falls over his eyes. “I’ll see you around. Stay cool, Evans.“

“Sirius!“

She stands up as he starts to walk away, and then she’s right in front of him; her fingers are wrapped around his wrist, her eyes on his. He stands there, shocked.

“We’re not friends,“ she says. She’s holding his wrist tighter than he’d thought she was physically capable of—his eyes flicker down to her fingers, dainty and flush, then back to her face. He points a cheeky finger of his own at her with his free hand.

“Right. Yes.“

“But we can be. I’d like to be.“

“I’ll consider it,“ he jokes, itching for her to let go. 

“You're kinda being a fucking prick.“

He pauses, eyeing her. She loosens her grip, but doesn’t let go—he could pull himself away and make a run for it, but the thought is probably the most ridiculous thing he’s thought all week. Running away from Lily Evans at eleven at night, like they’re first years playing tag and she’s got the upper hand on him.

“That’s true,” he agrees, “Just tell James he doesn’t have to worry. Really. That’s actually mental that he’s wasting precious brain cells—”

“I’m just telling you to talk to your friends. You can talk to me if you want to be friends, or not—it doesn't matter. But can you just talk to _someone_ before you explode and they have to pick up all the pieces?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘fuck’ before.”“

Lily squints at him.

“Evans, geez, relax,“ he goes on, touching her hand with his free hand. She flinches but still doesn't let go of his arm. “It's fine. I'm fine, you're fine—right? Because you worrying about everyone except yourself is fine, right? Yeah, I see what you're doing. _Derailing_ the conversation.“

“Alright,“ she says, looking away, “I'm better at holding it together than you. You're actually really, really bad at it.“

She glances back up and catches Sirius smirking. He can't help it. Evans is sort of cute when she's flustered, and he doesn't _get_ her on most days, but he likes her enough to not leave her alone in a courtyard in the middle of the night. Even if she does tend to pry. He takes a last glance at the moon, then at her hand.

She smiles weakly back at him.

“No talking about me,“ he orders, “If we're friends, fine, but that's sort of the rule.“

“That's a terrible rule,“ she notes. He shrugs. “Okay,“ she goes on, “Fine.“

“Let's hang out. I have half a bottle of firewhiskey. I was saving it for Halloween, but—“

Sirius starts walking away again but in the other direction, towards the doors inside, her hand still on his arm, tugging her along. She stumbles on the pavement and holds onto him to keep upright, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“Okay, I'm on rounds, so that's—“ she starts, walking to catch up with him as she gets herself balanced. He lets out a long, unimpressed groan, not stopping.

“Sorry, who's going to come at you for skipping out? You make the schedule, Evans. You should really shut up.“

“I can see why Remus doesn't want to spend time with you,“ she says bleakly, falling into step with him and standing up taller, “You're a little terrible.“

“Hey,“ Sirius says, “That was really mean.“

“Well, you told me to shut up.“

“And yet you're still yammering on, “ he says, smirking. Lily hits his shoulder before she jogs to get ahead of him, heading towards the castle.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Official™™™ Harry Potter fic, so! I've always seen Sirius & Regulus as interesting foils to one another, so this fic is going to be somewhat multi-focus, following the two of them + the rest of the Marauders in the final year before they, uh, go off to war. Sirius' story is pretty Wolfstar-centric as well, as I am a firm believer that Remus Lupin is that boy's shining light ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> I've got this whole thing mapped and outlined, so, hopefully updates will be rather consistent as I write.


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